


(We'll Call This Fixer-Upper) Home

by phdmama



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: (all those are in the past), Anal Sex, Artist Harry Potter, Boys Kissing, Dating, Falling In Love, Getting Together, Growth and Healing, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Hooking up, M/M, Mention of Suicidal Ideation, Oral Sex, Original Character Death(s), Original Character(s), Post Traumatic Growth, Recreational Drug Use, Rock Star Draco Malfoy, Semi-Public Sex, mental health
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-17
Updated: 2018-06-17
Packaged: 2019-05-24 15:24:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 52,520
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14957171
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phdmama/pseuds/phdmama
Summary: Draco Malfoy hasn’t set foot on English soil in ten years. After the war, he fled to America, where he found himself in a community, and healed himself through following his heart into music. He’s now the lead singer and songwriter for an internationally known band, who have come back to headline the Wiltshire Music Festival. But as Draco is about to learn, his past isn’t as far away as he might have believed, and his future may hold more than he ever could have dreamed.





	1. Prologue: the heaviness that i hold in my heart’s been crushing me.

**Author's Note:**

> This fic has been a labor of love from start to finish. Originally I just wanted to write a fic about Rock Star Draco in leather trousers and it took a turn, as my longer things always do. This is a fic about life, love, and post-traumatic growth, and as such, there are some tough moments in here. Please read the tags and if you have any questions about the content, please reach out to [me on Tumblr.](https://phd-mama.tumblr.com/)
> 
> I also have to talk about the music in this fic, because it’s so important, and every time I found a song that just spoke to me, it made this world and this story all the more real for me. I know there’s wild disparity in the styles of music Draco is creating, and for me, that speaks in part to the depths of his creative talent. Please see the end notes for specific song citations and a Spotify playlist.
> 
> First, I have to give a shout-out to the incredible [pasmwa](https://p-a-s-m-w-a.tumblr.com/) for the glorious art she created for this. I was so inspired and blown away by what she made!
> 
> Also, a big thank you to [darkestbliss](https://archiveofourown.org/users/darkestbliss/pseuds/darkestbliss) for her help with London geography!
> 
> Next, I have to say a HUGE thank you to my prereaders/betas/alphas/editors. This fic would not be what it is without their hard work and honest feedback. So, to **huge** thanks to: [Mac](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RealityBetterThanFiction/pseuds/RealityBetterThanFiction), [oceaxe](https://archiveofourown.org/users/oceaxe/pseuds/oceaxe), [helloamhere](https://archiveofourown.org/users/HelloAmHere/pseuds/HelloAmHere) and [aibidil](https://archiveofourown.org/users/aibidil/pseuds/aibidil)!!
> 
> All of these folks are wonderful and I highly recommend that you go read their work!
> 
> Please note that this is entirely a work of fiction, and I do not own these characters nor do I profit from them. I’m just playing in this world!
> 
> As always, the words, as well as the errors, are mine. I hope you enjoy!

**JUNE 1998**

“I beg your pardon?”

Draco stares at the house-elf in bewilderment, offering an automatic courtesy that he normally wouldn’t to a servant. He blames his confusion on the words the house-elf has just spoken.

“Mister Harry Potter is here to see you.”

Draco runs a hand through his hair, feeling thankful that he’d finally managed to get himself to shower this morning. He’s been frozen since his trial last week, unable to do much but sit in bed and shake, feeling like the world is about to end. Or perhaps that it already had. He’s made his way to the parlour this morning, and has been sitting in front of the fireplace for hours now. No fire of course, it’s late June. His mother has been barely got out of bed since Voldemort went down; she wasn’t even able to come to Draco’s trial. His father has been hiding in his office since that day, as well, and Draco is pretty sure that Lucius — awaiting his own trial, on house arrest — hasn’t been sober since.. He’s a mess, Draco has thought more than once, skating the edge of control. Most days, he’s barely coherent.

“I suppose…” Draco’s voice trails off and then he shrugs. “Well, see him in.”

Draco waits, hands in his pockets. He’d snuck into Muggle London and gone shopping, and is now dressing defiantly Muggle, even though there’s really no one to see him anymore. Until now, he thinks, as Potter walks into the room.

Their eyes meet and Draco nods, his heart in his throat. Potter looks… well, Draco thinks, he looks like he’s fought a war and won, but he’s not unscathed. He’s still too thin from his months on the run, and his face is sombre. He looks, Draco thinks, worn out. Older than the not-quite-eighteen Draco knows him to be, and there are shadows in his eyes.

“Potter.” Draco’s voice, he’s relieved to note, is flat and even, belying the nerves fluttering in his stomach. “This is a surprise.”

He flushes as Potter just looks at him for a long time.

“I brought you your wand,” Potter says abruptly and Draco flinches.

“I… what? You what?” He curses himself. He’s always known exactly the right thing to say, until somehow in sixth year, his words had gone silent. He doesn’t stutter, but he can't find the words anymore to say what he’s thinking. Not that there’s anyone listening.

“Your wand,” Potter says, carefully holding out a long, slender box. “I brought it back.”

“Oh.” Draco takes a deep breath, knowing that now is the moment to speak, if he can find the words.

He’s done nothing but think since the battle ended. He and his father had been held in Azkaban during the initial confusion after Voldemort’s defeat, and then they’d been released to house arrest. Draco’s trial had been held quickly. The Ministry had wanted to hold the students up as an example, and everyone had been shocked (but not, Draco thinks, surprised) when Potter himself had argued for clemency for the underage wizards. He’d argued for compassion, demanding that the Ministry work to heal their world, not break it further, and they’d listened. Draco and the others had been pardoned, but not, Draco knows, forgiven.

“Potter, I must—” Draco swallows.

He’s done nothing but think, and he’s come to the conclusion that he, and his kind, have been wrong. So desperately wrong, and he feels completely unmoored by this realisation, and his subsequent realisation that he can’t stay here in England. He’s got to get away.

Draco tries again, knowing the words are inadequate. “Potter, I must say this. Thank you. You saved my life, back in…” His throat closes, as it always does, when he thinks about fire and that moment when Potter came out of the smoke to save him. He coughs, tries again. “I know that I owe you…” and Potter cuts him off.

“You don’t owe me anything, Draco.”

 _I do,_ Draco’s mind screams. _I owe you_ **_my life_** _._ He opens his mouth to speak and Potter holds up a hand.

“No, Draco. Just…” Potter runs a hand through his hair, and sighs, and Draco can see the bone-deep weariness in him. “Just, fucking _do_ something with your life, okay? I know you can be more than this. _Better_ than this.”

Potter fixes him with a blazing stare and Draco can only nod.

There’s another moment of silence and then Potter turns to leave. He gets to the large open door that leads him back to the reception hall, and then stops and turns around.

“What do you think you’ll do now? Now that you’re free?”

 _I’ll never be free,_ Draco thinks, and then finally, finally, he finds the words.

“I’m going to leave.”

As he says the words, he feels the truth of them deep in his bones. He’s going to leave, because he has to, there can be no other choice for him. No other way forward. Draco hears the door close behind Potter as he heads up the stairs and looks wildly around his room. He takes a deep breath to quell the pounding of his heart and then begins to think.

Forty-five minutes later, Draco walks back down the stairs with a leather bag slung over his shoulder and the beginnings of a plan. He stops when he gets to the base of the stairway, and stares. His mother and father are standing in the foyer, as if they’re waiting for him.

For this rest of his life, Draco will remember the way the light streams in through the skylight, highlighting the silver threads in his father’s gilt hair, so like his own. He’ll remember the words his father screams at him, the way he shouts back, for the first time in his life. He’ll remember the cry of pain ripped from his mother’s throat as his father’s fist connects with his face, and the way her hands wring in despair as he wrenches the door open and stumbles down the front steps, his father’s words echoing his ears. He’ll remember that the last thing he sees before the door shuts in his face is the pain in her eyes. And how she never once opened her mouth to call him back.

 


	2. Chapter 1: now i live a waking life

**SUMMER 2008**

Draco takes a deep breath as he settles into the pre-show huddle with the rest of his band. This is their ritual, where they hold each other close, and are just quiet together for a moment. After all they’ve been through, there’s not really a need for words between them anymore. In any case, they say everything they want to say on stage, through their lyrics. Draco lets himself lean into the hug for a moment longer, and then, as one, they all pull back.

Draco holds his hand out, palm up, and one after another, the others pile their hands on top of his. They look at each other, one to the other, and then Draco feels his face break into a grin, which he knows is at odds with his slightly more… brooding, on-stage persona.

“Okay, loves,” Pansy says quietly, as they hear the last song in their pre-show line-up. “Here we go. This is it.”

 _It_ in this case is the opener of their two nights headlining at the Wiltshire Musical Festival, the newest and most prestigious wizarding musical festival in England. This festival happens to be the first time Draco’s band is playing on English soil, and, coincidentally also happens to be taking place not 20 kilometers from Draco’s childhood home. A place where Draco hasn’t set foot in ten years. And he won’t be going back now.

They move themselves onto the stage and into their familiar opening positions, and Draco casts one last look around the group. He’s pretty sure Pansy and Blaise are as nervous as he is. Norah is the only American among them, and Muggle-born to boot. She knows their history — there are no secrets among the four of them — but coming to England doesn’t have the same resonance for her that it does for the others, and Draco feels so thankful yet again that they’ve connected. As the drummer, she’s the backbone of the band, in more ways than one.

Draco hears Blaise sound his opening note without him even needing to ask, and hums softly as the crowd on the other side of the curtain explodes. Even though they’ve never played in England, they have a strong following here, and their singles have gone into the top ten every time.

The lighting cue signals that it’s time, and as the curtain rises slowly, the roar of the crowd increases. The lights flash, Norah drops down on the bass drum, and Draco winds himself around his microphone stand, a move he’s perfected over time, and does what he does best. He begins to sing.

_Just a young gun with a quick fuse_   
_I was uptight, wanna let loose_   
_I was dreaming of bigger things_   
_And wanna leave my own life behind_

He spins around, grins fiercely at Pansy on the bass, as Blaise hits the guitar strings hard. He lives for these moments, where they‘re all in sync and he’s riding the cresting wave of the music. It’s not just performing that he loves, of course. Not even mostly performing. He cherishes the quiet moments when they’re all writing songs together, or simply just being, watching stupid movies or helping Pansy with her crosswords. He craves his alone time too, needs to go off on his own, deep into his head and heart to mine for the truth he needs to tell, but _this._ In these moments, lit up on stage, it feels almost as if he’s absorbing the bright stage light that shines down on him and then radiating it out to the crowds. The lights seem to burn out everything inside of him but the music, so that he’s empty and filled at the same time, spilling his essential self out into the air for the crowd.

And the crowd loves it, consumes it and gives it all back to him like an offering.

As the song continues, he grabs up the drumsticks that are resting on the drum, his favourite floor tom, that’s positioned next to his mic stand and hits, hard. He knows how he looks, pale hair falling over his face, eyes heavy with black eyeliner, biceps bulging under the short sleeves of his tight black t-shirt, his arse showcased in skin-tight leather trousers. He knows he looks lean, whipcord strong, and just a bit dangerous. He feels the tingle of Ellie moving down his arm and winding around his wrist — she likes the vibration of the drumbeats.

The music swells behind him, Pansy’s driving bass line, Blaise’s fingers moving lightning-fast over the fretboard, and Norah, as always, strong and steady, supporting the rest of them. Then they hit Draco’s favourite moment in this song, where the instruments drop, and just their voices ring out, blending strong and true as they all freeze and sing. Then the instruments pick back up and the song rolls on to its defiant conclusion.

Draco and Blaise drive the chorus home,

_Thunder, feel the thunder. Lightning then the thunder._

While Pansy and Norah’s voices soar over their chant,

_Never give up, never give up._

On the surface, it’s chaos, but underneath it’s a carefully constructed dance between the voices and the instruments that finally joins into one last triumphant chord, and as they pause, already breathing hard, the crowd throws it back at them and the entire lawn erupts into cheers.

Overwhelmed, Draco turns to lock eyes with Blaise and then glances at Pansy, whose eyes are suspiciously shimmering in the stage lights. Norah beats a quick roll as if to remind Draco that he’s still at work here, and he grabs his mic stand.

Technically, they could just use magic for their amplification, but Draco’s never preferred just a Sonorus on its own for music. Instead they’ve created a hybrid of magic and Muggle technology, and Draco loves it. Pansy is brilliant, and has managed to fuse the Sonorus with the mic, and Draco’s become well-known for his gyrations and antics with the stand.

He pulls the hand mic from the stand and looks out at the crowd. It’s the usual cluster of misfits, no different from any other country as far as he can tell, but the energy here tonight is off the charts, and he _knows._ Sometimes you can just feel it, the way the air is charged, that this show, this festival is going to be special. It hits him, their fans have waited, years now, for them to come, and while he’s had his reasons to resist coming back, he finds that in this moment, he means the words he speaks.

“Well, hello, England. It’s good to be here.”

The crowd cheers, and Draco can’t help but laugh. When they’d started the band, Draco had never imagined that it would take him anywhere, and certainly not here, back to England. They’d formed it when they’d met Norah, who is one of the most talented drummers Draco has ever known. Draco, Pansy and Blaise had always made music together, but in the years that Draco had spent traveling, he’d got hooked on American music, particularly rock. So when he’d landed in the community in Las Vegas, when he’d invited Pansy and Blaise to come be with him there, they’d got together to write, heavily influenced by the music they were all listening to.

They’d recorded the EP on a lark, and when Norah had snuck it to her uncle, a prominent DJ on the local wizarding radio in Vegas, he’d fallen in love with the sound and played it, and they’ve never looked back. Their first full album had continued in this vein, but as they’ve learned more and grown, they’ve changed and their music reflects this. They’ve found their style has shifted from the guitar-driven rock of their first work to what they’re doing now, which is lighter. More pop, Draco thinks, less angst.

Because they’re doing two nights, they’ve reorganised their setlist. This first night is drawn entirely from their EP and the first album, while tomorrow night will be from their last two albums. The third album’s only been out a few months, but it’s done well, and they’ll be performing a lot of material from it. Material that Draco is so proud of.

He looks out into the crowd. He can only really make out the folks in the first couple of rows, and he sees that there’s a roped-off VIP area to the right of the stage, and remembers Theo saying something about “investors” and “pay attention to them, Draco.” He thinks he catches a glimpse of red hair in that group, but with the flashing lights, it’s hard to be sure.

“So, Wiltshire Music Festival,” he calls out to the crowd, that screams back with enthusiasm, “Are you ready to have a walk down memory lane? This is _Demons.”_

And with that, they’re off.

The set is tight, and just as Draco had anticipated, it is _electric._ The crowd is wild, singing along, and it amps up their performance as well. Draco alternates between the synth and singing, and on couple of songs, even plays some rhythm guitar to let Blaise shine on the screaming solos he’s so, so good at. Draco can see a group of girls in the front row, who can’t even be out of Hogwarts yet. They’re dressed in Muggle clothes, with dark makeup, and he wonders if he were ever that young. He certainly never felt so, never went to a music festival when he was sixteen, never sang along to his favourite band. He’s not sure he even had a favourite band when he was sixteen. He was too busy fighting a war. He shakes off the flash of melancholy as they finish Radioactive, and grabs the mic again, walking forward.

“Thank you all so much for coming,” he calls out to the crowd. “I don’t know if anyone’s heard, but we’ll be back tomorrow.” The crowd erupts and Draco laughs into the mic, not quite believing that this is really happening. “So, some of you might be here?”

He tosses a wink to one of the girls in the front row who shrieks and grabs her friend. They hold up their signs, waving frantically, and he waves back to them. He turns as the roadie walks out to hand him his Fender Telecaster, the deep green lacquer shimmering under the stage lights, and he slings the strap over his shoulder and around his neck as the crowd screams.

“Well, we’ve got one more song for you, this is one of the first songs I wrote when we got together as a band. I wrote it for friends, and for all of us. I’ve always enjoyed it, and I hope you do to. This is _It’s My Life.”_

The guitar kicks in, distorted and harsh, and Draco takes a deep breath.

_This ain't a song for the broken-hearted_   
_No silent prayer for the faith-departed_   
_I ain't gonna be just a face in the crowd_   
_You're gonna hear my voice_   
_When I shout it out loud_

Norah kicks in hard on the bass drum and the crowd screams along with him as Draco sings.

_It's my life_   
_It's now or never_   
_I ain't gonna live forever_   
_I just want to live while I'm alive_   
_My heart is like an open highway_   
_Like Frankie said_   
_I did it my way_   
_I just want to live while I'm alive_   
_It's my life_

Draco can’t help grinning as he sings, knowing there’s probably no one in this crowd who knows what he’s talking about, but he can’t help remembering a couple of tough Muggle kids who took in a total stranger when he needed it most. He’ll never forget them, and this song is for them. It’s for Blaise, who’s never once doubted that they had what it takes to make a life in music. For Pansy, still bearing the bruises her father had left on her when she and Blaise had arrived in Las Vegas. It’s for all of them.

Draco takes another deep breath as they come to one of his favourite moments in every show. It’s also one of the trickiest parts of the night for him, as he’s got to focus both on singing and waiting for that moment as he gathers his magic inside of him. The music goes quiet as his voice rings out:

 _You better stand tall when they're calling you out_ _  
_ _Don't bend, don't break, baby, don't back down_

As he hits a chord on the Tele, he pictures his magic deep within his core, and in his mind’s eye it crackles around his center like ball lightning, and then, until the chorus cuts in, he shoots his left hand towards the sky, magic erupting from his fingertips. He doesn’t have conscious control over the form the magic takes. Usually it’s a dragon and when he looks up into the sky to see what he’s created, he grins, because it’s Ellie, painted in blue across the sky in fireworks created by his magic. The dragon stretches its wings, rolls and dives, flattening out over the crowd who scream, whether in terror or ecstasy, Draco’s not really sure, and they all sing together,

_It's my life_   
_And it's now or never_   
_I ain't gonna live forever_   
_I just want to live while I'm alive_

_It’s my life._

“Thank you, Wiltshire Music Festival,” he shouts over the roar of the crowd, “Thank you for having us. We’ll be back tomorrow night. We are Dracones Imaginari.”

And with that, the lights drop, and they’re ushered off the stage by security. Draco grins at their crew, who immediately swarm towards the stage to break down their gear so that tomorrow’s afternoon opener can get set up. They head into the Green Room and Draco drops onto the sofa with a groan.

“That was fucking…” His voice trails off as he shakes his head, at a loss for words.

“I know.” Blaise drops down next to him and drapes an arm around Draco, who grimaces at the sweat dripping off his friend, but is far too used to it to say anything.

They’re all pretty rank at this point, and they’ve got an hour built into the schedule to make themselves pretty for the party. Draco knows he’s got a list somewhere of the people he’s supposed to impress, but, after a set like that, perhaps it won’t be _entirely_ necessary. Draco knows Pansy and Blaise want to do a tour here next year. He’s still unsure about that, but they can’t close doors tonight. This festival is about opening up their options, and that set they just played has probably kicked that door wide open.

Pansy kicks off her heels and puts her feet up on the coffee table. “Fuck, I’m wired.” She looks at Norah and says, “You want to head back to ours, sweetie? Take a shower?”

Norah nods from where she’s snuggled in on Draco’s other side. “In a minute, babe.” She looks around the room, her dark eyes flashing and then throws her head back with a laugh. “Fuck, fuck, _fuck._ That was amazing. One of our top five shows for sure.”

She pokes Draco in the ribs. He retaliates by tickling her back, and for a moment, chaos reigns on the sofa until Blaise puts a stop to it by sitting on both of them.

“You going back to your tent?” Norah asks Draco. “I wish they’d put us closer to each other.”

Draco rolls his eyes and sneers just a little bit. “Like I need to hear what you lot get up to? No thank you. I’m fine where I am.”

Norah pokes him again and things start to devolve, until Blaise shifts threateningly, as Norah mutters, “Rude, Draco. Besides, it’s not like we haven’t heard you now and again,” and Draco snickers.

When they’d first started touring, they hadn’t had much money, so they’d stayed in Muggle motels and driven from gig to gig in an old minivan, living on top of each other for months at a time, but as they’ve got more successful, they’ve been able to afford their own tents and Portkeys. America is just too damn big to be Apparating all over the place, it turns out. Draco appreciates the luxury, but he has to admit, at times he misses the intimacy of the four of them, on top of each other all the time. In any case, Draco loves his tour tent, and it’s far more home to him than the condo he owns in Las Vegas. He’s probably spent more time in his tent as well, he muses.

Theo comes into the Green Room and seems entirely unsurprised to see Draco and Norah pinned onto the sofa by Blaise, while Pansy checks her nails as she sits off to the side. It’s not an unusual sight.

“Okay,” he says. “First of all, _fuck,_ you guys. That was amazing, I think it’s one of the best shows you’ve done.”

Draco grins up at him. They’d run into Theo in a club in Vegas after one of their first gigs, and when he’d realised that the owner was trying to stiff them out of their pay, he’d stepped in, not only got them the money owed, he’d negotiated a raise for the next week’s gig. They’d promptly begged him to come on as manager, and it’s quite possibly the best decision they ever made. Draco is fairly certain that, left to their own devices, they’d still be broke and playing dive bars for fun in Vegas.

Theo slides onto the loveseat next to Pansy and wraps an arm around her, pressing a kiss to the crown of her head. Draco has to admit, he hadn’t seen that whole thing coming. Pansy and Norah had fallen fast and hard for each other, but bringing Theo into their relationship is a new development. Draco can’t help a flush of anxiety when he thinks about all the possible ways this could go so, so wrong, but thus far, it seems to be going well.

“Second,” Theo says, pulling out his clipboard and looking at his list of notes, “I need you all showered and decent,” at that Draco snickers and Theo just rolls his eyes at him, “and at the party. Tonight is the business people, possible tour investors, Ministry people, especially from S and E.”

Blaise frowns. “S and E?”

“The Department of Sports and Entertainment,” Theo says. “Used to be Magical Games and Sports, but after the war, there were more and more of these festivals, music, art, you name it, coming into being, so they expanded. They’re the ones who do all the permitting, Muggle repelling work, that sort of stuff, and they run the venues in London, Edinburgh and Hogsmeade. If we’re interested in touring the UK…”

His voice trails off as he looks around the room. Draco sighs, knowing he’s the last hold-out. Even Blaise is on board with it. “Fine,” he says, “Tonight wasn’t as bad as I thought it might be. I’m not promising anything but if you want to look into it, I’m fine with that.”

Pansy cheers and Norah comfortingly pats the only part of Draco she can reach, which turns out to be his bum.

“So,” Theo says, “go make yourselves look beautiful, and like a safe investment. Draco, save the theatrics for tomorrow night, okay? And don’t get too drunk.”

Draco rolls his eyes. “If Blaise would move his enormous arse, I could go get ready.”

Blaise sinks down even harder in retaliation and Draco squeaks. “I mean, his wonderfully rotund posterior.”

Blaise is finally persuaded to move, and they all head in different directions. Draco’s brought a change of clothes with him, so he chooses to shower backstage, delighting in the feel of the hot water on his tired and sweaty body, adrenaline still crashing through his veins. He wraps a towel around his hips and makes his way back to the dressing room. Their stylist is there, running her wand over his suit, a trail of steam coming from the tip.

“I was just about to pull you out of there myself, Draco,” she says sternly. “You’re already late.”

Draco rolls his eyes and smiles, knowing she fully means what she’s saying. She’s done it before.

“Don’t get your wand in a twist, love. I am,” he strikes a pose and squeaks as the towel slips, “…fashionably late.”

Sarah snorts. “Just get your underwear on, and get into this thing.”

Draco’s decided to go high-end Muggle for this party, as it’s really more of a business appearance. His three-piece suit is dark grey, and fits like a glove, showing off his lean frame perfectly. Sarah has paired it with a seafoam green shirt and a darker tie, and the color sets off his pale skin. Draco slips into the shirt and holds his arms out for the cufflinks. He puts on the rest of the suit, admiring the cut of the waistcoat as he buttons it up.

“I don’t want to go to this party,” he confides as Sarah shoves him into a chair with his back to the mirror and grabs a comb.

“Why?” Sarah asks, leaning in to begin his eye makeup.

Like the rest of their crew, she’s Muggle-born and American. The US had been distantly aware of the war, Draco knows, but it hadn’t affected them in any major way, and while the crew knows that England has been avoided, most of them don’t know why.

“There’ll be people here who knew me at school. And from the war. Not the fans, I don’t think, but officials. People like that.”

Draco’s never been quiet about the role he played. Their closest crew know him from the community in Las Vegas, and Sarah just nods.

“You are more than your mistakes, Draco,” she says wisely, and then fluffs his hair a bit. “There. Now you’re perfect.”

She spins him around and Draco leans in. She’s given him a subtle look tonight, highlighting his eyes and his cheekbones which are, if Draco is being honest, quite spectacular. He’s grown into his looks, and knows how to make them work for him now. Tonight he looks mature, confident, and successful, but with an edge.

He smiles at Sarah and she pats him on the shoulder and then says, “Enough. Go to the party. It’ll be okay. And if it’s not, you can leave.”

Draco nods. He needs these reminders, even now, that his life is his own, that he has not only choices, but control. He’s no longer bound to anyone’s will but his own. Well, and his band’s, of course. He’s not a fool.

He heads out to the VIP pavilion, where there’s a crowd gathered. Taking a deep breath, he holds his head high, and enters the crowd. First order of business, find the bar. He sees it at the back of the pavilion, and makes his way towards it, hearing the murmur at his presence spread away from him, like ripples after the pebble hits the water. The bartender hurries over, clearly recognising him and Draco reminds himself to breathe.

“What can I get you, Mr Malfoy sir?”

Draco accepts a glass of white wine, and turns to face the crowd, sipping his drink as he does so, and then his attention is caught by a familiar face topped with red hair.

Ronald Weasley. Draco hasn’t seen him in ten years, though he’d written to Ron about five years ago. He’d got a curt note back, so Draco watches warily as Ron pushes through the crowd, and his words surprise Draco.

“Sick show.” Wesley raises his smoking glass in an informal toast. He’s aged, of course, grown into his height, filled out. He’s wearing a faded t-shirt and jeans, not to mention trainers, and weirdest of all, he’s smiling.

“Thanks.” Draco takes a sip of his wine and searches for something to say. “I’m glad you enjoyed it.”

“Looks like a lot of work,” Weasley observes.

Draco laughs. “It is, but it’s amazing. I wouldn’t trade it for anything.”

“I just have to ask,” and here Weasley’s eyes narrow and Draco feels a frisson of alarm run up his spine, “Who’s Frankie?”

Draco stares at him. This is not the question he was expecting. “I beg your pardon?”

“Frankie, in that last song. Who is that?” Weasley sings in a pleasant tenor, _“Like Frankie said, I did it my way.”_

“Oh.” Draco grins in relief. “Frankie. Frank Sinatra, he was a Muggle, an American. He was an actor and a singer, loved by Muggles, had an iconic song called ‘My Way.’ He’s an absolute legend.”

Weasley is staring at him as if he’s grown another head, and Draco says a bit testily, “What is it, Weasley?”

“It’s just,” Weasley takes a gulp of his drink, “I don’t know. I mean, I know you’ve changed, and it’s been ten years but I guess I never thought you’d be talking about a Muggle singer. Of course, I’d never have thought you’d be, you know.” He makes a gesture towards Draco as if to indicate his, well, all of him. Weasley’s whiskey sloshes in his glass and he hastily takes a rather large sip.

Draco waits for the flare of anger, takes a deep breath, envisions sending it out and down, into the earth. His tone is mild as he says only, “I can understand that, I suppose.”

He drinks his wine and there’s a moment of awkward silence. Hanging in that silence between them are all the things that they both know, and that cannot be said aloud, and then Draco sees Ron nod briefly, almost as if to himself. Draco takes a breath.

“When I arrived in America, I was… lost. I met these friends, a couple.” He feels, again, the sharp pang of their loss. “They took me in, I lived with them for a while before I started traveling. They loved Sinatra, so I… learned to love him too.”

Ron is looking at him with too much understanding and it makes Draco nervous. “It sounds,” Ron says finally, “Like you have some stories to tell, Malfoy.”

Draco looks at him over the rim of his glass as he drinks and then says, “Just listen to the music, Weasley.”

“Oh, I have,” Ron murmurs with a funny smile on his face that Draco can’t quite interpret. “Believe me. I have. In fact,” he pauses, as if debating what to say next.

Draco looks at him quizzically.

“Just,” Ron says, clearly trying to suppress a smile, “Some of your lyrics seem really… personal.”

Draco frowns, taking another sip of his wine. “I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about, Weasley. All of my lyrics are personal, it’s why I wrote them.”

Weasley takes a sip of his whiskey, and is clearly laughing, though not, Draco realises, in a malicious way. More like he’s in on a joke, and he’s inviting Draco into the joke as well, but Draco can’t quite figure out his meaning. Weasley raises his glass to Draco again, and then turns to make his way off into the crowd. Draco takes a deep breath and puts it out of his mind. He’s got investors to charm, and there’s a good-looking man with an astonishing quiff giving him the eye from across the room. He doesn’t have time to figure out which song Weasley is implicating. He doesn’t have time to think about the past right now.

*****

When Draco finally escapes the crush in the pavilion, it’s late, coming on one o’clock in the morning. He’s schmoozed with ministry workers, a DJ, and two label executives. He’s done his job, he thinks, as he heads back to his tent with a sigh of relief. He’s tired, but still wired from the show, and he knows he won’t sleep for hours yet. Since he doesn’t have anywhere to be until four o’clock the next afternoon, it’s not a big deal if he’s up until dawn. Maybe he’ll smoke a bit. He hasn’t in awhile, but the night has that feel to it. Soft and lazy, and he’s got nowhere to be. He’s keyed up from all of the interaction, even though it had all gone far better than he’d ever hoped, and he needs to settle down.

His tent is small and familiar, the outside a little shabby from all the miles of travel. Inside, it’s comfortable, and after the years of touring and small, grubby Muggle motels, he loves the way it feels like a sanctuary. He showers, and gives thanks once more for the magic that ensures he’s got plenty of hot water and a good, strong water pressure. He throws on some loose athletic shorts and a vest, and decides to head to the back porch, grabbing a beer and his gillyweed on the way.

The porch is the reason why Draco bought this particular model. It’s got a roof charmed clear to open up to the sky, balustrades wide enough to sit on with built-in cushioning charms, and a sort of rustic charm. Not to mention the privacy wards that mean it always feels secluded and safe. He thinks about lighting the lamps, and then decides against it. There’s a full moon spilling across the fields, giving him enough light to make his way across the porch, and that’s all he needs right now.

Draco boosts himself up onto the railing and leans his head back with a sigh. His tent has been set up on the very boundary of the festival space, so his porch is backing up onto conservation land. He knows Stonehenge is over the hill in the distance and when he reaches out with his magic, he can feel the ancient energy pulsing in the earth below him, and the familiarity of it sends a shiver down his spine. It feels bittersweet, reconnecting with something he’d thought was lost to him.

Draco opens his beer, takes a long pull from the bottle, and lets himself relax, finally. He always works hard, well-aware that people have paid their hard-earned money to come see them play. He wants to give back to their fans what they’ve given him, but sometimes, occasionally, the stars align _just so,_ and they’re able to transcend to a different level. Tonight was one of those nights and he lets himself bask, just for a moment, in the feeling.

He looks up at the night sky, where the infinite and familiar stars shine back at him, and lets himself smile. He’s been so anxious about coming back to England, not just to England, but _here._ He’d been sure the gig was a mistake, that no one would come, that the only people who’d be there would be those holding grudges, throwing hexes. Even though he’d been acquitted at that brief farce of a trial, so many years ago, there’s still a part of him that believes if people had thrown hexes, that they’d be well-deserved. But, it seems the world has moved on, at least in part. Draco isn’t willing to risk Diagon Alley yet, but he feels the tentative opening some secret part of him that’s been locked in exile for ten years now, wonders if it really could be this simple. That interaction with Weasley has him rethinking how it might be, to be back in England more.

He feels safe enough to drop the privacy wards almost all the way down. He likes hearing the noise of the party and the festival in the distance, he just doesn’t want to be out there anymore. There are tents on either side of him, but one has neither back door nor porch, and the other is swathed in darkness such that Draco assumes the occupant is still out among the crowd.

He takes another swallow of his beer as he looks at the stars and ponders the possibilities. And then the silence is broken briefly by the sound of a door nearby opening and closing. No lamps light, but in the glow of the moon, he can vaguely make out a shape settling onto a low chaise on the back patio of the tent next door. Whoever it is can’t be more than three metres away from where Draco is sitting. There’s the scrape of a lighter, a brief flare of flame, and a moment later, the marshy scent of gillyweed drifts over and Draco grins to himself, wondering who it is, and if the person will acknowledge him.

There’s a long moment of quiet as the person inhales deeply and then lets the fragrant smoke out, and then a quiet voice says, “Malfoy.”

That’s it, that’s all it takes, and Draco knows exactly whose tent is set up next to his, and wonders which planner thought that would be a good idea, or if they had even thought about it all. He can’t believe, even with having talked to Ronald fucking Weasley just a couple of hours ago, that it never occurred to him that Potter might be here.

“Potter,” he says, his voice flat.

“Your set,” Potter says, exhaling the sweet smoke slowly, “It was amazing.”

Draco frowns, a bit disconcerted. “You were there? I didn’t see you at the party.”

“Oh, yeah.” All Draco can see as he looks over is the gleam of Potter’s eyes, then a flash of teeth as he grins. “Yeah, I was at the show. Didn’t go to the party. Wasn’t invited.”

“What?” Draco fiddles with his beer, sets it down on the side table, floored at the idea that there’s a party in England that Harry Potter isn’t invited to. “Well. I’m glad you liked it. I don’t know that I would have pegged you as a Dracones enthusiast.”

He hears the dry laugh as Potter takes another hit from the blunt. “Well, I suppose there’s a lot that you don’t know about me these days, Malfoy. Wouldn’t you say?”

Draco pauses, considering. “Yeah, okay. Fair point.” He can hear his own accent, dulled from his years in the US, coming in more strongly as they talk. “So, you’re… a fan?”

There’s a quick jerk of movement as Potter shrugs. “I like the music.”

Draco realises it’s never occurred to him that among their fans in England are people who know who he is. Or was. He feels a flicker of the fear entwined with anger and takes a deep breath, pushes it away. He’s worked too hard to go back to who he was, no matter how exposed he feels in this moment. He knows he always meets vulnerability with anger, and he’s learned to wait it out. He fights the urge to reply with some scathing comment and just holds still until he knows his voice will be steady.

“Thank you. It means a lot to us that our music speaks to people.”

Potter takes another drag on the spliff. “When you first hit the radio here, no one knew it was, you know. You. Parkinson. Zabini. Quite the scandal when the news came out, but you’d know that, of course.” Draco tracks the movement of his arm as he holds the spliff out towards Draco. “You want?”

Draco nods. “Sure.” He watches Potter rise from his reclined position. He’s wearing skinny jeans and a faded band t-shirt, and, holy Circe, he’s got a beard, trimmed short and neat. He looks… good, thinks Draco. _Really_ good. Like the kind of guy that if Draco had spotted him in a club, he’d be figuring out how to catch his eye.

Potter crosses the divide between his back patio and Draco’s porch and makes his way up the steps. He hands the spliff to Draco, who presses it to his lips, drawing the sweet smoke in deeply. He feels the hit immediately, and tilts his head back to blow the smoke out to the sky. He knows exactly what he looks like, knows that the long line of his throat must be gleaming in the moonlight as he exhales.

“Who would have thought it,” he says and coughs as the smoke clears his lungs. His head starts to spin just a bit. “Harry Potter, saviour of the British Isles, smoking gillyweed. That’s good shit.”

Draco takes another hit and hands the remains of the spliff back to Potter, who looks around and then stubs it out in the ashtray on the coffee table. He then drops down onto the glider, tips his head back to rest on the cushion, and sets the glider moving slightly.

“Like I said,” he finally murmurs, “There’s a lot you don’t know about me. Although…” His voice trails off and he doesn’t continue.

Draco wonders what Potter might have said, if he’d finished the sentence. He feels a bit dizzy from the ‘weed, which must be the reason he opens his mouth and what comes out is, “This is odd, isn’t it?”

“What?” Potter asks, his voice lazy in the dark.

“You. Me. Smoking together. It’s been ten years.”

All Potter says is, “I know how long it’s been.”

There’s a moment of silence between them, and Draco casts about for something to say. “What do your fellow Aurors think of you smoking ‘weed in your spare time, Potter?”

Potter stares at him, and Draco doesn’t think he’s mistaking the perplexed look on his face. “What do you mean? I’m not an Auror.” His voice is genuinely confused.

Draco shrugs, “Wasn’t that the plan? Save the world, then spend the rest of your life fighting the Dark?”

Potter snorts, seemingly in spite of himself. “No, I’d had enough of that. I never joined the Aurors. I’m surprised you didn’t know that, though. It was top news at the _Prophet_ for months after Voldemort went down.”

Draco shakes his head, feels the blur brought on by the weed. “I haven’t read the _Prophet_ since before the final battle, Potter. You’re absolutely right, I don’t know anything about you anymore. Maybe I never did.” He contemplates rolling another spliff, but then decides to take another sip of beer. He waggles the bottle at Potter in invitation after he drinks. “Do you want one?”

Potter shakes his head, and it hits Draco again, just how surreal this moment is. Sitting here in the dark, in the warmth of an early summer night, so close to where he’d grown up, talking to the man he’d hated to the core when he was young, the man who saved his life, the man who doesn’t even know how much he inspired Draco to change. A man he hasn’t spoken with in ten years, though he’s thought about him along the way, of course. More than he wants to admit.

“I didn’t say you don’t know _anything,_ Malfoy. I haven’t changed all that much.”

“Haven’t you?” Draco wonders.

He knows _he_ has, changed almost beyond all recognition, at least to himself. He likes this Draco, doesn’t want to let who he’d been rise back to the surface again. It’s been his biggest fear about coming home, that he’d slip back into being that person, though the others have promised not to let that happen.

Draco pulls his thoughts back to this moment, and says, “Well, fill me in then. What have you been doing in the last ten years if not continuing on with your hero complex? Did you marry the ginger? Have a brood of baby Weasleys of your own? If you’re not chasing dangerous and Dark wizards, what are you doing?”

Potter laughs outright and gives him a look that Draco can’t quite decipher. “No. Definitely not. I’m an artist. I’m not married, no kids.”

Draco tries to reconcile this Harry Potter with the boy he knew at Hogwarts. “An artist, hm? I don’t remember you being into that.”

Potter is quiet for a long moment, and then says “Well, I didn’t have much chance to explore it at school. But after the war, I… decided that I’d done enough, _given_ enough.” His voice is fierce. “And that it was time for me to live my life for myself. So I went to France for a while, fucked around in a bunch of different mediums, found what I loved and just… did that.”

Draco looks over at him, sitting splayed out on the glider and raises one eyebrow. “You any good?”

Potter meets the challenge head-on, not that he knows any other way, Draco remembers, and he lifts one eyebrow in response as he says, “Are you?”

Draco laughs in spite of himself, “Potter, you’ve heard my music.”

Potter concedes with a grin. “Okay, fair point. You’ll have to come to London, if you want to see for yourself. I’ve got a show opening at the end of the summer. But yeah, I’m pretty good, Malfoy,” and the way his voice drops on the last sentence sends a shiver down Draco’s spine, straight through to his groin.

“So,” Potter continues. “How about you?”

“How about me, what?” Draco asks, stalling a bit as he tries to figure just what Potter is asking.

There’s too much that he doesn’t want to talk about, too many questions he doesn’t want to answer. He tries to figure out what feels safe to share.

Potter sighs, gets up, and comes over to mirror Draco’s position on the railing. “Oh, nice,” he says, wiggling his bum as he gets comfortable, “Cushioning charm. And you know what I mean. You disappear, no one hears anything for a few years, and all of a sudden you’re a rockstar.”

Draco can’t help himself and snorts. “Not a rock _star,_ Potter, have some respect for the journey. At that point I’d say we were still listed in the up-and-coming columns.” He takes a deep breath and doesn’t fight the urge to speak.

“When I left England, after… everything, I just. Wandered for awhile, I guess. I spent a few years working my way around the US. When I landed in New York, I…” His voice trails off as he thinks back to that time. “I made friends, lived with them for a while, waited tables. Then I got the urge to travel. Worked the apple harvest in Vermont and picked oranges in Florida. I drove tomato trucks in California and planted grapes in Napa Valley. Learned to make wine.”

He looks up to see that Potter is staring at him, open-mouthed. “Are you telling me that you lived as a Muggle? Worked as a _labourer?”_ His astonishment is obvious, and Draco can’t help but laugh.

“Yeah, that’s exactly what I’m telling you. I mean, I had my wand, thank you for that, by the way,” and Potter nods in acknowledgment. “But I almost never used it. I just. My mind was pretty cloudy there for a while, and I needed to use my body, my hands, to get clear. After about three years, I ended up in… I guess you’d call it a commune. An intentional community, wizarding, called Grace and Acceptance, in the desert outside of Las Vegas. I’d been there a month when I got in touch with Pansy and Blaise. We’d kept in contact while I was… traveling, and I knew they were looking for something too.”

There’s so much he’s leaving out, so much he can’t talk about.

“And you found it? In this community?” Potter asks, his voice genuine and interested.

Draco looks up to meet his eyes in the moonlight. They’re dark, and Draco wonders if they’re the same bottle green they were at school. Draco’s eyes are caught as he looks at the way Potter’s mouth is framed by the short beard. He pauses, his mind a bit fuzzy as he tries to think of how to answer the question.

“I found everything there,” he says finally.

There’s a long moment of silence, Draco wondering if he’s revealed too much, and then Potter gives a soft hum into the night.

“How’d you get into music, then?” is the question he settles on and Draco rolls his eyes.

“I’ve always been ‘into’ music.” He quirks his fingers into air quotes, adding a particularly posh spin to the word as he does so. “It’s part of a pure-blood education, didn’t you know? Proficiency in at least two instruments; voice lessons, both speaking and singing. I was writing music by the time I was seven.”

He glances at Potter and can see the amazement on his face. “I never knew. You never seemed… musical at school.”

Draco can’t help the snort that escapes him. “First of all, Potter, the holes in the Hogwarts curriculum could fill a library, and second of all…” His voice trails off as he ponders how to word this without opening old wounds long since scarred over. “We were fighting a war. There wasn’t time for music. For creation.”

Potter is quiet for a long moment and then says only, “Well, it’s wonderful you found your way back to it.”

Draco takes another sip of his beer, and sets the bottle down. He lets his head tilt back against the beam that supports the roof, and without thinking, bends his knees to plant his feet on the railing beneath him. He doesn’t think about his attire until he hears a choking sound come from Potter, and glances over at him in concern. Potter’s eyes gleam in the moonlight, and he’s gazing with something that looks astonishingly like hunger at the place where Draco’s loose-fitting shorts have bunched up around the junction of his thigh and his groin, and, would you look at that, the rosy tip of his cock is now peeking out from beneath the fabric.

Between the beer he’s drunk and the gillyweed, Draco can’t muster anything other than a vague sort of amusement as he reaches down to adjust the legs of his shorts, but as he does so, Potter makes an odd sort of movement towards him and then stills. Draco freezes.

“Err, sorry about that,” he says, affecting disinterest. “Forgot what I was wearing for a moment.”

Potter gives a cough and says just as diffidently, “I don’t mind at all, Malfoy. Don’t cover up on my account.”

In the light of the moon, Potter’s eyes are dark, and there’s a quirk to his lips that Draco’s never before seen aimed in his direction and his heart starts to beat faster.

“Forgive me if I’m a bit surprised by that, Potter,” is what he finally comes up with, not sure how to ask the question.

Potter gives another snort, and then says, sounding a bit incredulous, “Really? Merlin’s beard, you haven’t kept up, have you?”

All of a sudden Draco can’t quite breathe. “When?”

“About four years ago.” Potter shrugs. “I mean, it was never a secret to my close friends, well, once I’d figured it out, of course, but I got tired of hiding it. Tired of worrying about being outed, so I staged a little… demonstration, I guess you could call it.”

Draco laughs in spite of himself. “A demonstration? Are you joking? What, you dropped trou in the middle of Diagon Alley and had some bloke suck your cock during the noon hour?”

“Nothing quite so explicit, but thanks for that visual.” Potter grimaces as Draco lifts his beer in a teasing salute. “And I’m not sure you can begin to understand how weird it is to hear you say the word cock.”

Draco can hear the surprise in his own voice. “Really? Why? I mean. I do have one, Potter.”

Potter makes another one of those choking sounds and then says only, “I’m well-aware, Malfoy. It’s just that you’re so…” His voice trails off. “Anyway, you haven’t said. How about you?”

“How about me what?” Draco says again, wondering what Potter is trying to get at.

“It’s just, I know some people heard from you, after.” Potter’s mouth twists for a moment as he glances away and then meets Draco’s gaze again. “And the press on your private life is surprisingly thin.”

Draco frowns at him. “Been looking, have you?” and Potter shrugs.

“You can’t blame a man for wondering,” Harry says. “Do you have any idea of the furor you sparked here, Malfoy?”

Draco frowns more deeply. “No. I don’t keep up on that. That’s Theo’s job. It’s not… good for me to be too concerned about those things. I’m sure he’s got a scrapbook, but I asked him at the very beginning not to tell me anything unless it was an emergency, and he’s never said a word.”

“Well,” Potter shrugs. “When it came out that this amazing new band that all the kids were raving about was made up of you, Blaise and Pansy—”

“And Norah,” Draco is compelled to add. “Our drummer, Norah. She’s incredible.”

“Right, but she’s not a…” Potter’s voice trails off as if he’s considering how to word whatever it is he’s trying to say.

“She’s a witch,” Draco says firmly. “Not that it matters at all, and she didn’t discover her magic until Vegas. She is a witch.”

“I know,” Potter says in surprise, “I was going to say, she’s not a Slytherin. All of you disappeared when the dust settled after the trials, and no one saw any of you for years. Then all of a sudden, you were all over the radio, and the press. _Modern Wizarding_ did that huge spread on you.”

Draco vaguely recalls something about that, but again, Theo manages their publicity and he seems to operate strictly on a need-to-know basis, and generally Draco doesn’t, they’ve all agreed. Particularly with regard to UK coverage. He goes where they tell him to go, answers the questions he’s given, and goes home.

Draco shrugs and toys with the label on his beer bottle. “Well, I don’t know what they said, so I can’t comment if it’s true or not.” He makes a face and then surprises himself with his honesty. “That part of the job, it’s never sat as well with me. When we were…” His voice trails off, and he glances up to see Potter watching him expectantly. “When we were in school, I envied you, all that fame. I thought you loved it. I knew I would have loved it. And I was quite sure I would have handled it far better than you did.”

Potter’s voice is low as he says, “I didn’t love it. I hated it. Those years I spent in France, where I was far less visible, it was easier there.”

“So why come back?” Draco wonders, drinking from his bottle.

“Why did _you?”_ Potter counters and Draco rolls his eyes.

“Fine. I came back because… well, from a musical career standpoint, my refusal to set foot on British soil was costing us opportunities, and believe it or not, Potter, but I do actually care about our fanbase, and the others convinced me it was time. That ten years was long enough.”

“Long enough for what?” Potter asks, and there’s an urgency in his voice that Draco thinks he might understand.

He’s not an idiot. He’s attracted to Potter, he’s long since stopped deluding himself that this wasn’t the case in school, underneath all that fire and rage. Even after all this time, that spark still appears to be present. He’d hated Potter, more for what he represented than who he was, he knows that, but he’d wanted him desperately, even then. And, now, apparently, he’s still attracted, and their old animosity appears to have slipped away over the years, leaving only this, the air between them humming with moonlight and fireflies as they look at each other in the dark.

With effort, Draco drags himself back to the present moment and says, “It seems funny that the fame you had, I longed for, and now that I have it, I don’t particularly want it. I’ve tried to keep as much of myself private as I could.”

“Malfoy,” Potter’s voice is rough. “You said ten years was long enough. For what?”

Draco glances down at his arms for a long moment. When Voldemort had died, he, like every other marked Death Eater, had experienced a wrenching pain at the site of his Dark Mark, almost as terrible as when it had been inscribed on his skin, and when he’d pushed back his sleeve, the mark had disappeared, leaving behind a mottled and scarred surface. He’s covered the outside of that arm with an intricate floral tattoo, but his forearm is blank. He’d tried to hide it, but it hadn’t worked, and eventually he’d given up, realising it felt important to leave the scar uncovered as a reminder. He feels the reassuring press of Ellie tucked up around his right bicep and runs a thumb over the cloth of his shirtsleeve and feels her shiver in response.

“Long enough,” he says finally, “for atonement.”

The word hangs in the air; Draco can almost see it shimmering between them.

“Atonement,” Potter says. “Is that what you feel you’ve earned?” There’s no anger in his voice, it’s simply curious, and Draco shrugs.

“I don’t know. That’s not for me to decide, is it?”

“Hermione told me you’d written her. Ron. Seamus. Neville. Others, too.”

Draco sucks in a breath. “Yes. Like I said, the community I was part of, it was a… spiritual programme of sorts, I suppose you’d call it. We learned to… take responsibility for our actions. It was where I spent time really taking apart all the things I thought I knew, the things I had believed. It’s different in America, Potter. I didn’t have to be _Malfoy_ there. The weight of that name.” Draco leans his head back and closes his eyes for a moment. “It was crushing me. But in America, out there in the desert. I could breathe. I could think. I could figure things out for myself.”

And then, in the dark, Draco feels it. Potter’s hand reaches out and wraps gently around his ankle, holding on loosely, and Draco’s eyes fly open to meet Potter’s.

“What did you figure out, Draco?”

His touch is light, barely there even, but it ignites something under Draco’s skin, sending licks of fire straight up his leg.

“I, uh.” He swallows, trying to catch his breath. Potter’s touch seems to have stolen his words. “I, uh, figured out. Fuck.” He hears Potter’s breath catch. “I figured out that I was fucking _wrong,_ about all of it. But I didn’t want to just turn around and say, ‘Well, if this is what my parents believe, then I’ll believe the opposite.’” He slashes the air quotes out viciously. “That way they still controlled me. I had to figure out what _I_ believed. Learn to trust myself.”

And with that, Potter surges forward and kisses him hard, leaning in as he slides his palm up Draco’s leg from his ankle to land somewhere north of his knee. Draco freezes, and Potter pulls back for a moment, his breath sweet and hot on Draco’s lips as his other hand comes up to cup Draco’s face.

“Is this okay?” He whispers after a moment.

Draco stares at him, and laughs, disbelieving. “I mean. Potter. We’ve just met again. It’s been ten years.” His own traitorous hand drifts up to curve around Harry’s cheek, and he runs his thumb along the sharp edge of Potter’s jaw. “How much did you smoke tonight?”

Potter grins, his teeth flashing white in the light of the moon. “Some. A lot, I guess.”

Regretfully, Draco brushes his thumbs across Potter’s lips and then lets his hand fall. “I had a few drinks at the VIP party. And then a couple of hits of your excellent ‘weed.”

Potter sighs, skims his hand over Draco’s knee and pulls back. “Fine. Do you… want me to go?”

“No,” Draco says before thinking it through. “No, I really don’t. But,” and he can feel his face crinkling up in consternation. “Honestly, Potter—”

“Harry,” Potter says insistently. “You can do it, Draco.” His voice drifts off for a moment and he appears to be deep in thought. “I think I’d like to hear how my name sounds on your lips.”

“Fine,” Draco huffs. “Harry. What is happening here?”

Harry slides off the railing and tugs Draco to standing after him, and pulls him across the porch and over to the glider. He drops onto the seat and yanks Draco down next to him, draping an arm around his shoulders so that they’re pressed together, all along their bodies, and Draco can feel Harry shrug.

“Well,” he says finally, grabbing Draco’s beer and taking a swallow, “We’re not who we used to be.”

Draco stares at him, the words echoing in his ear. “What?”

“Both of us. When we were young, you know? We were who we were created to be, _manipulated_ to be, but then. After. The first time I heard your songs, I knew.”

Draco frowns. “You knew what, exactly?”

Harry looks at him and then whispers, “I knew that you were different. That something had changed.”

Draco’s head is spinning. This seems wrong. It seems far too easy.

“You’re fucking high, Potter,” he finally says.

“Why didn’t you write me?” is what Harry replies, and Draco stares at him. “I just,” Harry runs a hand through his messy hair, and Draco smiles for a moment, because that hasn’t changed at all, no matter how unforeseen the position he finds himself in is, tucked up under Harry’s arm as they sit on the glider, rocking gently. “You wrote to so many people. Why not me?”

Draco can’t meet his gaze, and he can feel his face flushing, and his throat inexplicably thickens. “Oh, Harry,” he sighs, the unfamiliar name slipping out easily. “I did. I wrote you, so many times. I just… never sent them.”

“Why?” Harry asks again and Draco knows there’s no escaping this.

He can’t deny there seems to be a spark between them, and it’s something he’s not felt for a long time. He’s intrigued; he’d like to to see what happens if they fan it to life. Maybe they’ll burn up or burn out, but maybe… Maybe they won’t. There is, he thinks, work to be done.

“Part of our work in G and A was about healing ourselves, and the damage we’ve created. One thing I’ve learned is that we all leave damage.”

He feels Harry tense beside him as he continues.

“It’s just that some of us… do more. More damage. More harm. More _wrong._ The more you’ve done, the more work you need to do to heal it. But, you don’t make amends directly when you believe that the person would be hurt again by your contact. Rightly or wrongly, I felt like it would hurt you more for me to reach out, especially when there’s no real justification for what I did.”

Harry’s gaze is shuttered now, and he pulls his arm from Draco’s shoulders as he leans forward to pick up Draco’s box holding his gillyweed and paraphernalia from the coffee table. Draco feels the lack of him immediately and shivers a bit in the chill Harry’s left in his wake.

“But that wasn’t really your decision, was it?” Harry asks, as he opens the box and pulls out rolling papers and the ‘weed container. “Shouldn’t that have been my call?”

Draco stares at him. “Potter,” he says finally, and rolls his eyes when Harry makes a face at him. “Fine. _Harry._ Are you saying that you would have wanted to hear from me? This was years ago.”

Harry focuses on rolling the spliff, and Draco can feel him shrug. “I mean. I don’t know. Maybe? If we’re going to…” He stops suddenly and Draco really wants him to finish that thought.

“Harry,” Draco says quietly, and actually feels Harry shiver at the sound of his name. “Harry, do you want to read the letters I wrote you?”

Harry flips the lighter and takes a long drag. “I want to kiss you again.”

Draco stares at him, baffled, and then accepts the spliff Harry passes him. “You confuse me,” he says finally, and takes a hit, holding the smoke deep in his lungs as he hands the spliff back.

Harry laughs. “Why?”

Draco exhales. “Because one minute we’re rehashing old war wounds, and then you’re just saying… _that._ What you just said.”

Harry drops the smouldering spliff into the ashtray and turns to Draco. “I’ve been listening to your music, Draco. I’ve been listening for years, and I heard what you’ve been saying. I _hear_ you. So yeah, I do want to read the letters, just not right now. Right now, I want to kiss you, and I’ve got better over the years at asking for what I want.”

He reaches up with both hands and cups Draco’s face, his fingers skimming over Draco’s cheeks, and Draco is suddenly achingly aware of everything around him. The sweet smoke from the ‘weed, the sound of insects in the night, and farther away, the buzz of the party in the distance. The feel of Harry’s hands on his face, the gleam of his eyes in the moonlight.

“Can I, Draco? Can I kiss you?”

Draco takes a deep breath, and then whispers, “Yes.”

Unlike the previous kiss, which had been heat and lightning, this kiss is soft. Gentle. Harry kisses Draco like he’s the only person in the world, like he already knows him, kisses him like he can’t _not_ kiss him. He kisses Draco until they’re both gasping, until Draco’s head is spinning and he isn’t sure which way is up, and then Harry pulls away, just far enough to press his forehead to Draco’s. At some point, Draco has reached up to cling to Harry’s broad shoulders, and he relishes the feel of muscle under his fingertips.

“I should go,” Harry whispers and Draco nods.

“Yeah.”

He knows if Harry doesn’t go, this is going to escalate, and he’s not in a place to make any sort of decisions about that right now. He feels like his mind has been blown open, like the world is not what he thought it was, and he’s going to need some time to figure this out.

Harry stands up. “I’ll be at your show tomorrow. Maybe after, we can talk. Or…” His voice trails off as he grins in the darkness. “We can not talk.”

Draco stares up at him, and then nods.

Harry smiles and then leans down to place one last kiss on Draco’s lips, so sweet in its tenderness that Draco feels his throat thicken. He hasn’t been kissed like that in years. No, Draco thinks. He’s never been kissed like that. He’s not sure he even knew that kisses like that existed. It is unnerving and exciting, all at once.

It feels like the start of something new.

After Harry leaves, Draco smokes the rest of the spliff, sitting quietly. Finally, he gathers his things, and heads back into the tent. Suddenly, a thought hits him, and setting the bottle and ‘weed box onto the table, he moves quickly upstairs and into the small bedroom that’s more familiar to him than the bedroom in the condo he owns in Las Vegas. He rummages in the closet for a moment, and then his fingers close over the object he is seeking, and he pulls it out from under a pile of scarves.

It’s a good-sized cedar box, about 20 cm wide, and has an intricate pattern of vines carved into the lid. He’s carried it with him for years; it had been a gift from Andi, his sponsor in G&A. He opens it carefully, the scent of the wood drifting over him. Inside are some of the things he’s collected in the last ten years. A Muggle photo of himself with two smiling, dark-haired people. A folded up poster from their first big show. The one family picture he carries, even after everything. Something rattles in the corner and he picks the item up and laughs. It’s a Potter Stinks badge. Underneath those things, and others, lies a thick packet of letters, bound together by a black satin ribbon. Draco reflects, not for the first time, that he does trend toward the dramatic.

He carefully unties the ribbon and draws a letter at random from the stack, pulling it from the unsealed envelope. He unfolds the parchment and notes the date at the top of page.

> _13 November 2002_
> 
> _Dear Potter,_
> 
> _It’s becoming a habit, isn’t it, these letters? Andi says that as one of the people I hurt the most, I need to keep writing you until I feel that I’ve said all that needs to be said. She says I’ll know when that is. I think that’s ridiculous but as you know, I trust her. I mean, I know you don’t_ _really_ _know. You haven’t read a single letter I’ve written because. I haven’t sent them. You know why._
> 
> _It’s been four and a half years. Sometimes I go days, even weeks without thinking about the war. Sometimes I sleep through the night. We’re playing New York City next week. Blaise and Pansy want to go see Ground Zero. I want nothing to do with it. Before you say anything, no. Not because of Muggles. Terror is terror, and we all die the same, don’t we?_
> 
> _My father would say that he didn’t hate Muggles, but that they were different from us. We were superior, better. Stronger._ _Magic_ _. And maybe he would even have thought that he was telling the truth, that he didn’t hate them. But he did fear them, because he didn’t know them. So, that’s a thing I’ve learned, Potter._
> 
> _That we hate what we fear._
> 
> _Sincerely,_
> 
> _Draco Malfoy_

Draco sets the letter down with a sigh. There are about twenty in all, written over the course of three years, until he had, as Andi had predicted, said all he’d needed to say. The last one had been written in July of 2004, as their third single had gone to number one on the American Wizarding Charts.

He hasn’t thought about Potter much in the ensuing four years. He’s been busy, focusing on his career and his musical development. The things he’d poured out in the letters to Harry, he’d taken and refined, turning those thoughts and feelings into art, into lyrics he’s been proud to sing.

Thinking about his lyrics sparks this memory. What was it Harry had said? _We’re not who we used to be._ He frowns, and then grabs his notebook and his favourite pencil (he’d given up on quills ages ago), and drops down onto the comfortable sofa in his small living room. He flicks his wand at the fireplace. Even though it’s not cold, there’s something about the flames he finds soothing, and then he begins to write.

It’s almost 5:30 am when he looks up, and out the window he can see that the sun is well on its way to rising. He shakes the cramps out of his hand, and shutting the notebook, drops it onto the low table in front of him. If he’s going to be in any shape to sing tonight, he’s got to get some sleep.

He grabs his iPhone and sends the rest of the band a quick text to let them know he’ll be there for soundcheck, but not to wake him before. He sets an alarm to give himself enough time to eat and shower before call, and then makes his way to his bedroom. He kicks away his shorts and pulls his top off, dropping them both carelessly onto the floor. He casts a quick cleansing charm on his teeth, though normally he prefers to brush them. A flick of his wand drops down the light-blocking shades, and he groans as he crawls into bed. It may have been a mistake, but there’s something in those lyrics. Something good. It’s not exactly his story he’s writing, he thinks, but it’s a story that rings true to him, and with the chorus echoing in his ears, he drifts off to sleep.

_We’re not who we used to be, we’re not who we used to be. We're just two ghosts standing in the place of you and me…_

He wakes up to the sound of Beethoven as his alarm goes off the next afternoon. For once, he’s slept soundly, and can’t remember his dreams. After a thorough shower, he throws on his clothes from yesterday, and thinks a bit about the schedule. They’ve got sound check, then he’s in wardrobe, then they’re hanging out until their show at nine o’clock. There’s another VIP party tonight, but it’s a different crowd. Last night was for the investors, the business people, the record label, the planners. Tonight, well, some of those people will be there, but it’s also for the fans. Draco is pretty sure he’s heard Blaise and Pansy muttering with Theo about “invitations” and “guest lists” and things like that. Things he’s not interested in. He’s definitely not going to look at the guest list to see if the Saviour of the Wizarding World is on it.

He sends a quick text to Theo asking to take a look at the guest list after sound check, and Theo sends back a long stream of incomprehensible acronyms that Draco thinks means “yes, that will be fine, I’ll make sure to have it with me then.”

He sits down and noodles around on the guitar with the lyrics from last night until a text comes in from Theo that says _Where the fuck are you??_ and he squawks as realises how late he is, and sets off at a run.

They get through soundcheck. Their newer music requires a more technically complicated set-up and it takes longer to make sure everything is as it should be. Not to mention, Draco keeps getting distracted, not only by the memories from last night, but also by his thoughts. He can’t help wondering about Harry, and what he might be doing, or thinking. Can’t help picturing how the night might go, and it’s wreaking havoc on his concentration. Finally, they get shooed off the stage and back to wardrobe. Draco has a moment of regret that he’s missed the entire festival, and promises himself he’ll come back another year, when he can listen and be part of the crowd.

After promising Sarah that he won’t spill anything on his stage clothes, he heads into the Green Room. He fills a plate from the buffet, and sits down next to Blaise on the sofa, putting his feet up on the coffee table as he eats. The food is surprisingly good, but he can’t stop his foot from tapping on the table as he eats, mind running wild. Blaise appears to have finished his first plate and is taking a breather as he sips some whiskey before going back for round two. He drapes a companionable arm around Draco’s shoulder and they sit in silence for a bit.

Finally, Blaise says, “Okay, spill. I can feel you thinking from here. What’s going on? Are you nervous about tonight?”

Draco shrugs. “Yeah, maybe. A bit. It’s a different vibe, you know?”

Blaise just nods.

“But it’s also.” Draco sighs. “Things got weird last night.”

“At the after-party? Every time I saw you, it looked like you were doing fine. And that DJ, the one from London? He was certainly chatting you up.”

Draco snorts, remembering. “Yeah, he was a bit alright, but not really my type. Too… polished, I guess. His hair was too fancy.”

Blaise elbows him gently in the ribs and laughs. “You’ve always preferred your men a bit messy.”

“Yeah, well, speaking of that…”

Draco doesn’t quite know how to say it. There’s no question that he won’t say it, of course. He doesn’t keep secrets from his band.

Blaise looks at him and quirks an eyebrow. “Well, well, well. Draco Malfoy. Did you pull at an industry party?”

“No,” Draco defends himself. “I did not, you giant wanker. I am a _professional.”_ He tilts his nose in the air as he says this and Blaise laughs. “But after I got back to my tent, things… took a turn, you might say.”

“Oh really?” Blaise says. “Well, go on then, tell me.”

Draco takes a bite of his spanakopita, chews and swallows. “You’ll never guess who my neighbour is.”

Blaise frowns, sips his whiskey. “I’m trying to think of the most unlikely candidate, but I’ve got nothing.”

“Potter.”

Blaise chokes on his drink. “Potter? As in _Harry_ Potter? As in Saviour of the Wizarding World Potter?”

Draco raises his glass of wine in a salute. “Got it in one, Mr Zabini.”

Blaise stands up. “I’m going to need more food for this story. Do not go _anywhere,_ Malfoy, I’ll be right back.” He stomps off to the buffet and Draco smiles.

After Blaise is settled back on the sofa, he takes a bite and then says, “Okay. I can’t even begin to imagine how that went down, so spill it.”

Draco sets his plate down and grabs his wine. “I was sitting on my back porch, just winding down, you know? And then my neighbour came out to smoke and it was, well. It was Potter.”

“And?” Blaise prompts.

“And he came over. And we talked. And…” Draco thinks back to those kisses in the dark. In the light of day, it seems preposterous, but his skin remembers the feel of Harry’s mouth on his body and he shivers a bit.

“No!” Blaise is wide-eyed. “Draco, did you fuck the Boy Who Lived?”

Draco winces a bit at the blunt question but answers. “No. No, we didn’t, but…”

“Ah ha!” Blaise points a fork at Draco in excitement. “But something happened, didn’t it. I can tell.”

Draco lets his head lean against the back of sofa. “He kissed me.”

“Mmm hmmm…” Blaise eats some more. “And?”

“And nothing. He was high, I’d had a few drinks, it wasn’t going to go further than that. We talked some, too. He wanted to know why I hadn’t written him.”

Blaise nods. He’d sent many letters of his own. They’d all worked with Andi’s guidance in those early years.

“What did you tell him?”

“The truth.” Draco shrugs. “It was weird. Like he was hurt. Told me it should have been his choice to read them. I don’t know, maybe he’s right.”

Blaise says gently, “You made the best decision you could, Draco. That’s all any of us can do.” He pauses and then points out, “You didn’t say. How was the kiss, anyway?”

“It was.” Draco exhales roughly. “It was fucking amazing.” He can still feel Harry’s hand on his leg, his mouth moving against his own.

“And what are you going to do about it?”

Draco slants a sideways glance at Blaise. “I’m probably going to kiss him again. Do you know what he said? He said he’d been listening to us. To _me._ For years, and that he _heard_ me.”

“Are you going to give him the letters?” Blaise asks, and then answers himself. “Of course you are. In fact, you already have, haven’t you?”

Draco laughs at that. “No, not yet. But yeah, I’m going to. Maybe. I don’t know.” It’s terrifying, he realises, to think about showing Harry the letters, as much as he wants Harry to see them. He finally shrugs. “I guess I’ll have to see if it goes anywhere.”

By the time Draco gets into wardrobe, he’s about to burst out of his skin, though he couldn’t say why. He doesn’t get stage fright to the point of incapacitation anymore, but he does get anxious, wants to do his best, and this program, this music, is close to his heart. He and Sarah go over his choices, and he decides for a more low-key look, opting for ripped-up skinny jeans and a sheer black shirt with large roses embroidered on it. He pairs these with his favourite converse high tops, and they spend a few minutes talking about his outfit for the party as she does his makeup.

Finally, Theo calls positions and Draco takes a deep breath. This setlist has him playing a lot of synth and keyboard, and he’s excited, even if it means he can’t get up to his usual gyrations. The lights drop, they hurry to position and then the lights blast up and a wave of sound rolls over them. Draco looks back at the others with a delighted smile and leans into his mic.

“Well, well, well, Wiltshire Festival. Back again for round two?”

The crowds cheers, screams echoing even louder than the night before, if that’s possible, and Draco laughs.

“We’ve got a great setlist for you tonight. Last night was a throwback to our beginning, tonight is drawing from our more recent work, from _Winterbreak_ and _Atlas_. I hope you enjoy the show!” He takes a deep breath, as the song they’re opening with is one that’s deeply personal to him, and then calls out, “This is Pluto!”

He takes a deep breath and begins, picking out the lilting melody on the keys as he hears the others join in, following his lead. Lifting his head, he looks out into the audience and begins to sing.

 _i woke up from the same dream:_  
 _falling backwards, falling backwards_  
 _’til it turned me inside out._  
  
_now i live a waking life_  
 _of looking backwards, looking backwards;_  
 _a model citizen of doubt._

He makes eye contact with the front row, it looks like the same group of girls from last night, and they’re looking even more dressed up and excited tonight. He figures the tickets they’ve bought will get them into the VIP party tonight as well. Then his gaze skates over to the VIP section. They’ve moved it tonight, it’s closer to the stage, closer to him, and he can actually make out faces. He sees Weasley, right up front, and flanking him on either side is a dark-haired woman that Draco thinks must be Granger, and on his other side is Potter.

Draco can’t quite tell, with the stage lights flashing, but he thinks they make eye contact, and he continues to sing, feeling his heart thumping in his chest, steady and reassuring that no matter what comes next, he’s here now.

_until one day i had enough_   
_of this exercise of trust._   
_i leaned in and let it hurt,_   
_and let my body feel the dirt._   
_when i break pattern, i break ground._   
_i rebuild when i break down._   
_i wake up more awake than i’ve ever been before._

A thrill runs through him as he sings. He loves this song, loves what they’ve created. He can’t, in this moment, even describe what it means to him, to be singing these words in this place, and to whom. He continues, and seeks out Harry again, trusting that Harry had told him the truth, that he’d been listening, and he’d heard.

_still i’m pinned under the weight_   
_of what i believed would keep me safe._   
_so show me where my armor ends,_   
_show me where my skin begins._   
_like a final puzzle piece_   
_it all makes perfect sense to me…_   
_the heaviness that i hold in my heart belongs to gravity._   
_the heaviness that i hold in my heart’s been crushing me._

This is a song off their latest album, and Draco feels almost vulnerable as he sings, and he realises this is new for him, singing for an audience who’s known him. He feels the band at his back, supporting him and propping him up as he sings the bridge.

_i’ve been worried all my life,_   
_a nervous wreck most of the time._   
_i’ve always been afraid of heights,_   
_of falling backwards, falling backwards._   
_i’ve been worried all my life._

The sound builds and Draco feels the music swell through him as they carry through and he lets the final line of the song ring out.

_the heaviness in my heart belongs to gravity._

The crowd erupts again, and Draco realises they’ve been singing along, and feels the prick of tears in his eyes. He blinks rapidly and coughs, clearing his throat. Whenever he imagined how it might feel to come back to England, he never dreamed that it might be like this. He even sees Weasley and Granger grinning and cheering while Harry watches him with that steady gaze.

They make their way through the setlist, and like the previous night, the energy is high, though it’s not the raucous feel that it had been the previous night. This night feels sacred, like they’re taking the magic they all feel deep in the earth beneath them and channeling it through their bodies to make something beautiful. Draco feels a pang of regret when he realises they’ve come to the last song on the setlist.

He grabs the mic, he’s only singing on this one, and moves towards the front of the stage.

“Wiltshire Music Festival,” he begins, and can’t continue for several moments as the screams rise from the crowd. Finally he raises his hand and the crowd settles a bit, letting him speak.

“I want to thank you, each and every one of you who’s come out to see us, if you made it last night as well, or just tonight. As some of you might know, it’s our first time playing in England, and it’s my very first time back here in a long time. I never imagined it would be like this and all I can say is, I’m sorry it took so long.”

The crowd roars and he laughs.

“So, we won’t let it go so long next time. Our last song tonight is something I actually wrote a whole bunch of years ago, just as we were starting out as a band, but it didn’t really fit with our sound at the time, but as we’ve grown and changed, I think it fits in very well now. This is a song I wrote for a dear, dear friend.”

He feels more than sees Pansy’s grin and she executes a quick arpeggio on the bass, prompting the crowd to shout again as they realise what’s coming.

“So, Wiltshire Festival, we can’t thank you enough for having us last night and tonight. We love you all very much and we can’t wait to come back. We are Dracones Imaginari,” and the crowd screams, “and this _I Know a Place.”_

The music opens and Draco steadies himself. This one can be hard for him sometimes, as hopeful as it is. He still remembers when Pansy had come through the gate at the International Floo-port in Los Angeles, where he’d gone to pick her up. Her lip had been split and she’d had a hell of a black eye, and had refused to talk about it for weeks, saying only, “My father… objected to my decision to leave.”

_I knew_   
_When you told me you don't wanna go home tonight_   
_And you tried to just shrug it off when I asked you why_   
_Somebody hurt you_   
_Somebody hurt you_   
_But you're here by my side_   
_And I knew_   
_'Cause I can recall when I was the one in your seat_   
_I still got the scars and they occasionally bleed_   
_'Cause somebody hurt me_   
_Somebody hurt me_   
_But I'm staying alive_

Draco spins and drapes himself around Pansy as she plays, watches Blaise watching them, feels the beat Norah is holding as the crowd sings and dances.

_And I can tell_   
_When you get nervous_   
_You think being yourself means being unworthy_   
_And it's hard to love with a heart that's hurting_   
_But if you want to go out dancing_

Draco moves to the front of the stage and holds the mic out to the crowd, who sing his words back to him and he closes his eyes for a moment against the emotion that’s building in him.

_I know a place_   
_I know a place we can go_   
_Where everyone gonna lay down their weapon_   
_Lay down their weapon_   
_Just give me trust and watch what'll happen_

He pulls the mic back and sings the rest of the chorus, and they move smoothly into the second verse. Draco has drifted backwards so he moves back to the front of the stage and sings, his voice dropping into its deeper range, husky and vibrant, and once more, begins pulling his magic deep into his core, preparing.

_They will try to make you unhappy_   
_Don't let them_   
_They will try to tell you you're not free_   
_Don't listen_   
_I, I know a place where you don't need protection_   
_Even if it's only in my imagination_   
_I, I know a place we can go_   
_Where everyone gonna lay down their weapon_   
_Lay down their weapon_   
_Just give me trust and anything can happen_

The music drops out and it’s like the entire crowd takes a breath together, and as the crowd joins in with the band as they sing, Draco drops to his knees and once more shoots his hand towards the sky and lets his magic fill the sky as they kick back in with chorus. This time, not only has he lit up the sky, but lighting flashes all around him as his magic reaches out, and the crowd screams, and he looks over to see Harry watching him calmly.

As the band winds down to the end of the song, Draco lets his voice ring out over the crowd, and as he sings, he takes a moment to look up. His eyes widen because this time, instead of a dragon, his magic has created galaxies and nebulae, interposing them against the backdrop of the clear summer sky. He watches his magic fill the night, pictures his voice moving out into the dark and over the hills, and wonders if his mother knows he’s here, so close, as he sings.

 _Don't you be afraid of love and affection_ _  
_ _Just lay down your weapon_

Their words echo across the crowd, and then music dies out, the lights drop, and that’s it. It’s over. Draco feels his shoulders slump as the adrenaline starts to settle, and he watches Blaise hand off his guitar to a tech. He follows the others offstage, the screams of the crowd ringing in his ears as they head to the Green Room.

They gather in the wings for a moment, huddled together and listening the screams of the crowd, which are now coalescing into a chant, and what the crowd is calling for is _More, more, more_. The festival organiser, a large, burly fellow that Draco thinks is called Luca something or other, bustles over to them, looking hopeful.

“What do you think?” He asks excitedly. “The crowd is going mad. Do you want to do one more?”

They look at each other and the Norah gives a grin and taps out an enthusiastic drum roll on Draco’s arm.

“Fuck yeah, we do.”

Draco feels it too, that the crowd isn’t quite ready to let them go, and he’s not ready to let go of them either, and then it hits him.

“What about,” he says, and then coughs, “Hey, what about _Any Other Way?”_

It’s an old song, one of their first, and they’d never released it as a single, but it’s a song Draco loves, and it hits him now, how obvious it is, though he really hadn’t fully seen it when he’d written it. It’s an anthem, a shout-out against the dark, but Draco has always known it’s not exactly _his_ anthem. Now he understands, and feels a bit foolish at how obvious it is. It’s not his anthem at all.

It’s Harry’s.

And Harry is out there in the crowd that’s chanting and cheering and giving no sign of winding down.

Draco looks at his band and can see the moment when Blaise makes the connection, because he snorts and then laughs loudly.

“What?” Pansy asks. “I love that song, but we haven’t done it in ages.”

Blaise, not taking his eyes off of Draco, grins. “I’ll tell you after. We’ve got this. We can play that song in our sleep, come on.”

Blaise turns to Luca. “We’ll do one more? That sound good?”

Luca pumps his fist and grins. “Fuck yes. That set was amazing. I can’t believe we got you to come here.”

Draco looks around and then they all nod, and head back out onto the stage. The crowd explodes when they see them taking their places and it takes them several moments to calm down.

Draco slings his guitar back over his shoulder, thankful that they had it set up, even though he doesn’t play as much for their newer sound. He pulls his mic stand closer to the front of the stage and looks out. He can see Harry there, now standing in between Ron and Hermione, cheering along with the crowd and gives a disbelieving laugh at how this has all gone down.

Finally he speaks and the crowd settles a bit. “Well, well, Wiltshire,” he calls out, “They’ve given us permission to do one more for you. How does that sound?”

The crowd roars.

“So, we decided to finish with an old one, from our first EP. Sing along if you know the tune, this is _Any Other Way.”_

The crowd screams, surging in excitement and Draco sees Harry turn to look first at Ron and then at Hermione, and when he turns back to the stage, Draco can see the grin on his face.

The guitars kick in, and then Norah drops in with the beat and they’re _off,_ Draco and Blaise going hard on the guitars together, and then Draco sings.

_I am wide awake_   
_And I'm standing tall_   
_Up against the world_   
_Up against the wall_   
_Between the love and hate_   
_They can hardly wait_   
_To watch the hero fall_

He can’t quite believe it, but he sees Ron, Hermione and Harry all shouting along to the words he’s singing, their heads pressed together, and in shock, Draco realises, this song means something to them. He wonders if Harry knows what is obvious to Draco now, though he’s never seen it before, that Draco wrote it for him.

_You could give me hell_   
_You could give me death_   
_Right before I bend_   
_I will have revenge_   
_Fire through my veins_   
_I will fan the flames_   
_Until my dying breath_

Draco remembers the battle, remembers the way Harry stood tall, afraid, but fighting anyway, willing to die for what he believed in. Draco remembers writing these words, wishing he’d had that courage then, wanting the words to be true.

And then the crowd kicks in as they sing together.

_Cause I will never go down_   
_Any other way_   
_I will never go down_   
_Any other way_

The song churns on and Draco can almost see the defiant energy rising from the crowd, and can’t believe that he’s being given this gift, that they’re all in this moment together, unified by the music he wrote.

Then the music drops down, and Draco sings, looking right at Harry as his voice rings out on the final chorus.

_Gasoline pumping through my veins_   
_Dancing on top of the flames_

_I will never go down_   
_Any other way_   
_Any other way_

They bring the crowd along with them into the final call and response, the sound echoing across the festival grounds. Then, they set down their instruments, take one last bow, and leave the stage. That’s it. The festival is over.

The minute they exit into the wings, they’re surrounded by the stage crew, the festival workers, all clamoring for attention and offering congratulations. It takes a few minutes to work their way to the Green Room, where the noise drops as Blaise shuts the door behind them.

They’re quiet for a bit as they sit, drained, and it hits Draco how big this feels, how hard it is to have come back, not just to England, but _here._ So close to the place he once called home. Memories roll over him in waves. Laughing on the back lawn of the Manor as his mother sends brightly colored bubbles from her wand across the grass for him to chase and pop. Hiding on the roof as Voldemort and his lackeys move into the Manor. The feel of his father’s fist crashing against his cheekbone. The brush of Harry’s lips against that same spot last night.

For a moment, past and present are blurred in his mind, and then he rolls his shoulders and takes a long deep breath. Norah, who has always been able to read him well, places her hand at the center of his back, and rubs firmly, just enough to remind him that he’s here, he’s whole, he’s not that person anymore. He’s not trapped.

“You okay?” she asks quietly and he smiles at her, small but real.

“Yeah. That was just — it was a lot. Fucking amazing show though.”

“And now,” Theo says, walking into the room, ever-present clipboard under his arm, “it’s party time.” He looks around the room. “Why so quiet? That was a killer fucking show, guys. You nailed it.”

They all grin at him and the mood in the room eases up. Norah and Pansy begin chattering about their plans to head to London from here, and Theo holds up a hand.

“That’s right. Let’s talk logistics for a minute. Draco, Blaise. What are you doing from here? We’ve got to be out of the site by tomorrow evening. General crowd will be gone by noon, and security figures it's safer if the talent waits until they’ve all cleared out. So, no rush in the morning.”

Draco and Blaise look at each other, and then Blaise says, “I think I may head to London as well.”

Draco knows the others have been back. Pansy had reconciled with her her family a few years ago, and she and Norah have a gorgeous converted warehouse flat in Camden Town. Draco’s never been, of course, but he’s seen photos. Blaise had never had the same estrangement from his family that the rest of them did, and Draco knows he uses the family townhouse in Kensington from time to time when he comes to London.

Draco himself hadn’t made definite travel plans, not knowing how the show would leave him feeling, and he glances at Blaise again who gives him a small grin and nod, and then he says slowly, “Actually, I think I may come to London too. Blaise offered me a spot at the family pied-a-terre.”

“That’s fantastic,” Theo says and then looks more closely at him. “Are you sure? I mean, it will make planning out the next few months a bit easier.”

They’re between tours and albums, so Draco has no firm demands on his time or person for the next few months, and given that he’s no longer wanting for money, he can afford to spend time in London.

Lucius had cut Draco off from his Malfoy inheritance the day Draco had left England, and had died in Azkaban without ever speaking to Draco again. His mother, however, controlled the Black side of things, and she had not disinherited him. When he was twenty-six, he’d come into his portion of the Black family inheritance, and when he’d got the letter, he’d cried. He’d reached out to thank her, and they’d begun a stilted correspondence over the last two years that continues to be sporadic, as if neither of them can figure out how to break through the walls and pain between them. He has no idea if if he wants to see her, though he thinks she would want to be seen with him, if only to keep up appearances. In any case, it feels right to take some time in the city and reacquaint himself with this part of his history.

So, Draco just nods and Theo says, “Excellent, alright. Shall I arrange a Portkey for you for tomorrow? Five thirty in the afternoon?”

Draco nods again. He could Apparate, he supposes, but he’s out of practice, and doesn’t want to misjudge anything and land somewhere unexpected. Or splinch anything important.

“That sounds good, Theo, thanks.”

“Why don’t we all plan to meet Tuesday morning to go over things,” Theo continues. “Blaise, Draco, why don’t you come to ours? We’ll get breakfast brought in and we can talk.”

And with the next step planned, it’s time to get ready for the party. Draco’s been looking forward to this one. With the shows over, and having gone so well, he no longer feels like the next stage of their career as a band is riding on his shoulders, so he’ll be able to relax. And, it hits him, most likely Potter will be there, and suddenly Draco is in the mood to make an impression.

He stands and says to the others, “Right. Sarah’s getting me sorted for the party. I’ll see you all there?” and as they agree, he heads out to wardrobe.

Sarah shoos him into the shower, and he scrubs down, sniffing the products appreciatively. They’re not his usual ones, she’s always stocking their venues with something new. These are lovely, a nice spicy-sweet scent layered with sandalwood. He heads back into the dressing room, one towel wrapped around his hips, the other he uses to dry his hair as he walks.

“So,” Sarah says. “What sort of look are you going for tonight?”

Draco thinks of Harry, their kisses in the dark, the look on his face as he’d watched Draco perform and knows there’s only one answer.

“Walking sex,” he says decisively, and drops the towel as Sarah cackles.

Forty-five minutes later, he looks at the results in the mirror and grins. Sarah wraps her arms around him from behind and gives him a hug.

“I don’t know who the lucky guy is, Draco, but he’s not going to be able to resist you.”

They’ve poured Draco into his favourite leather trousers, which lace up at the groin, and are fitted all the way down. They’ve paired these with a white silk shirt that invokes, Draco thinks, a bit of a pirate feel, with its deep v-neck opening and ruffles. He’s got the sleeves rolled up, and with the shirt tucked in, they’ve managed to highlight both his arse and his pecs, not to mention his forearms, and Draco feels like that’s just a win for everyone. The best part about these trousers is that they’re so buttery-soft, he can actually move in them, and they’re quite comfortable. He sits down and laces up his favourite floral doc martens, gender norms be damned. Sarah’s put a heavy eyeliner on and just a bit of a rosy lip. She’s trimmed his hair, which is short on the sides and back, and then a long tousled fall on one side.

Draco gives one last look in the mirror, runs his fingers through his hair and grins at Sarah, pressing a kiss to her cheek. “Thank you, love. I’ll see you there?”

“Oh yeah,” Sarah grins. “I’ll be there.”

Draco takes a deep breath, and then walks from the room. It’s a cooler night than the previous one, and he’s glad for the long sleeves as he makes his way from the performance space to the VIP Pavilion. He reaches the edge of the crowd, and like the night before, decides to head to the bar. He’s opts for a gin and tonic to start. He doesn’t want to drink too much, it’ll interfere with where he hopes the night will go, but it’s a shot of liquid courage. He’s never really liked crowds that much.

And then, he feels him before he sees him. Potter’s magic washes over him, leaving a shiver that runs down his spine. He turns and watches Harry move through the crowd, his eyes hot as he takes in Draco’s appearance. When Harry’s eyes drop to the lace-up flies on the trousers, he actually seems to miss a breath and groan, before he remembers where he is as his eyes whip back up to meet Draco’s. Draco offers a playful smile and a wink, and lifts his glass in a silent toast as Harry moves next to him to order a beer from the bartender.

“Hello, Draco,” Harry says primly and Draco’s smile widens.

“Well, hello yourself, Harry. Fancy meeting you here.”

He marvels at how quickly things can change.

Harry grins and lifts his beer in a salute. “Amazing show. Last night was great, but I love this newer direction the band is going in.”

Draco lets himself feel a moment of deep satisfaction. “I agree,” is all he says as he sips his drink, a pleased hum escaping him at the quality of the gin.

“Just one question,” Harry says, and Draco makes an interested face. “You’re not afraid of heights, are you?”

Draco’s pulse picks up; this is not something he wants to talk about here. Not tonight. “Not everything I write is autobiographical, Potter,” he says finally, and Harry raises one eyebrow at the name but doesn’t say anything. “It doesn’t have to be factual to be true.”

It feels, Draco thinks, like they’re in some small bubble of their own, even surrounded by the crowd as they are.

“However, in this particular case, there is some… validity to that line. But I don’t…” His voice trails off and he sees understanding flash across Harry’s face.

“It’s a beautiful song, Draco,” Harry says gently. “I’d love to hear about your lyric writing process some time.”

Draco turns his head to meet his gaze, open and steady, and says, surprising himself, “I’d like that too.”

He’s a bit amused that Potter, of all people, has become someone who can talk about the lyric writing process. He’d never struck Draco as particularly artistic before. He shakes his head, bemused for a moment at how things have changed between them.Then he hears his name being called, and gives Harry a rueful smile as Theo pulls him away to meet some fans who’ve won some radio contest to be here.

Over the next couple of hours, Draco wonders if perhaps he might be going crazy. Just a tiny bit, because he can’t seem to get a word in with Harry, although he finds himself hyper-aware of where the other man is. Every time they try, one or the other is dragged off to meet someone Very Important, and if Draco didn’t know better, he’d think the fates were conspiring against them. Until he catches Harry’s gaze from across the room, that is. It’s a mid-sized gathering and yet, like a compass pointing to true north, Draco always knows where Harry is standing, and when their eyes meet, he can feel it in his toes.

Finally, finally, he makes his way back to the bar where he finds Harry standing, sipping what looks to be lemonade, and he gives a quick prayer of hope that Harry’s also chosen to stay sober tonight, in anticipation of what may lie ahead for them in the night.

“So,” he says, when they’re finally standing face to face.

“So,” Harry agrees and Draco snorts a bit.

“I was thinking of heading out.”

Harry smirks at Draco, the bastard. “Well, what a coincidence. I was thinking the same. Could I walk you home?”

“You could,” Draco says, throwing caution to the wind and reaching out to run his finger across Harry’s delightfully firm chest, enjoying the way Harry’s eyes widen and his breath hitches under Draco’s touch. “You could definitely do that.”

They leave the sounds of revelry behind them as they walk towards their tents. Draco shivers as Harry’s arm brushes against his, and after a moment, Harry laughs a bit.

“Not to be clichéd,” he says, “but, your place or mine?”

Draco thinks for a moment. “Yours,” he says finally, “I haven’t changed my sheets in a while.”

Harry snickers and says, “Well, you _are_ in luck, because I changed mine just today.”

“Oh, really,” Draco looks over at him, and he’s grinning. “Were you assuming you’d get lucky?”

Harry looks back and his smile shifts from teasing to something softer. Gentler. “Not assuming. Hoping, maybe.”

Draco can’t control his face and he knows the smile on it is fonder than it should be. Oh well.

Potter waves a hand at his front door as they approach and Draco hears the click of the lock and raises an eyebrow, his heart starting to pound.

“Wandless and nonverbal? You’re a show-off,” he murmurs as they enter the tent, and Harry turns to him.

As he pushes Draco back against the door, Harry says only, “Did it work?” and then he leans in to kiss Draco.

This kiss reminds Draco of that first kiss, when Harry had simply surged over him like a wave, kissing him until he was drowning in it. This is not the gentle kiss they had shared on the glider. This is a kiss of intensity and fire, a kiss of passion and desire, and Draco feels it fucking _everywhere._ He winds his fingers through the soft strands of Harry’s hair, pulling him in closer. Harry presses up against him and slots one muscular thigh between Draco’s leather-clad legs and Draco can’t help the groan that escapes as Harry pushes up against him.

“Fuck, Harry,” he whispers fervently and the words escape him like a prayer, like an incantation.

There is magic to be made here tonight, he thinks.

“Yeah,” Harry whispers back, kissing down Draco’s neck, who tips his head back so that it thunks against the door. “Yeah, I think so. That sounds good.”

Head spinning, Draco gently eases Harry away from him and stares. “Wait, what?”

Harry arches one eyebrow and Draco can’t help the kiss he presses to the corner of Harry’s mouth, thrilling at the feel of Harry’s beard under his lips. “That wasn’t a suggestion?”

“It could be?” Draco asks, feeling a thrill run through him at the thought.

He can’t deny it’s one that had crossed his mind at times, although in school, his fantasies had run more to the hate-fucking variety, and now. Well, now he pictures Harry spread out under him, writhing under his tongue and feels his cock get impossibly harder in his leather trousers.

“Yeah,” he breathes. “Yeah, it definitely could be.”

“I mean, I can top if you want,” Harry shrugs. “Or we don’t have to fuck at all to get off, but I just,” his gaze darkens as it sweeps down over Draco’s body and back up to his face, “I can’t lie, I’ve been thinking about you fucking me since last night.”

“Oh really?” Draco arches up as Harry resumes his work on Draco’s neck. “Ah, fuck, okay. What gave you the idea?”

“When I got a glimpse of your cock, you idiot,” Harry mumbles, reaching up to start unbuttoning Draco’s shirt. “All of a sudden, all I could think about was—” His hand slides down between Draco’s legs to cup the bulge there and Draco hisses even as he bucks at the contact. “This. I wanted this.”

Suddenly, the absolute oddity of the situation hits Draco and he snorts, grinning as Harry looks at him with confusion. “It’s just. I never would have pictured it being like this, and now.” He licks his lips, watching Harry’s eyes trace the movement of his tongue. “Now it’s all I can think about.”

Harry gives him a smile that is positively devilish and then steps back, holding his hand out to Draco. “Would you like to come upstairs with me, Draco? Check out my clean sheets? Maybe mess them up a little?”

“Yeah,” Draco breathes. He reaches down to unlace his boots and kick them off, then grabs Harry’s hand. “Lead the way. Let’s make a mess, Potter,” and the grin that Harry throws him over his shoulder creates an odd, breathless feeling in his chest.

They stumble into the bedroom, and Harry, again with the wandless, nonverbal magic, waves his hand distractedly and candles situated around the room burst into flames.

One actually explodes and Draco jumps as Harry says, “Whoops!” and waves again to put out the small fire. “Sometimes when I’m… excited, my magic gets a bit…”

“Merlin,” Draco breathes, yanking Harry in for another scorching kiss. “That probably shouldn’t get me hot, but it does. It really does.”

Harry murmurs against his mouth, “Don’t think I didn’t see the wandless magic you were doing on stage, Draco. So you’re really one to speak.”

Draco shudders as Harry’s teeth graze his earlobe and then work down his neck even as Harry shoves his unbuttoned shirt off of his shoulders, pinning his arms to his sides. Harry’s mouth moves down to his collarbones and Draco shudders at the sensations he’s leaving in his wake. He wiggles out of the shirt, letting it fall the floor, and hears the hitch in Harry’s breathing.

He knows the moment Harry sees the scars tracing over his chest, when he shudders and freezes, one hand pressing into Draco’s chest, and for a moment, Draco wants to grab his things and run.

“Draco.” Harry’s voice cracks as he whispers, “Oh no.”

“Harry,” Draco says just as quietly, and slides his hand over Harry’s face and under his chin to nudge him to standing. “Harry, no.”

There’s a long pause as they look at each in the candlelight, and Draco thinks distractedly that Harry really is unfairly beautiful. Draco struggles to find the words to help Harry understand that he doesn’t have to ask for forgiveness, he’s already _been_ forgiven, long ago, even if only for Draco’s sake and not his. His scars are simply reminders now, of the stories he’s lived, the things he’s survived. They’re simply a memory of pain, not the pain itself, and so much a part of Draco now that he barely notices them.

“Let it go. It’s done.”

“Can you, though?” Harry asks, and reaches out to trace the curve of the line across Draco’s sternum, and Draco shivers under the gentle touch. “Can you let it go?”

“I already have,” Draco says. “Years ago. I’ll prove it to you, later. But for right now, can we just…” His voice trails. “I don’t want to go back there tonight.”

Harry traces down Draco’s belly, leaving a wave of goosebumps behind and for a moment, Draco wonders if that’s it, the mood destroyed, but then Harry’s thumb ghosts over Draco’s aching cock, and he lets his hands slip down around Draco’s back to cup the curve of his bum, and they’re kissing again.

It’s hot and it’s wet, and it’s fast and furious, and it’s fucking _glorious,_ and Draco can’t help the moan that escapes him as Harry’s teeth scrape across his jaw, and then Harry whispers, “Okay,” and kisses him again.

After another long moment, Harry gives Draco’s arse a second, appreciative squeeze, and then says, “Not that these trousers aren’t the hottest thing I’ve seen since Oliver Wood’s centerfold in Wizarding Sports Illustrated, but maybe we could get you out of them?”

Draco snickers. “Well, that’s not the sexiest of maneuvers, to be sure. And…” He can’t quite believe how comfortable he feels, even with the intensity of that moment. It’s like they’ve both committed to just being here now, jumped all the way into the deep end. “To be honest, I should probably hop into the shower. Leather trousers may look good, but they don’t leave a person feeling their… freshest.”

Harry begins to untie the lacings of Draco’s trousers, his fingers brushing over Draco’s groin again as he does so, and Draco groans.

“You’re a fucking tease, Harry Potter.”

Harry drops to his knees and begins peeling the trousers down over Draco’s hips. His eyes darken as more and more skin is revealed, and Draco tries not to flush at the look on Harry’s face.

“Fuck,” Harry breathes. “Draco, _fuck,_ no pants?” He yanks the trousers down to mid-thigh, to reveal Draco’s cock, hard and flushed. Harry groans before leaning in to give a quick lick along the length of it.

“Harry, I’m all sweaty,” Draco whispers as he wiggles out of the trousers and kicks them away, sending them flying into the corner of the room.

“I don’t care,” Harry all but moans and without warning, sucks Draco’s cock deep into his mouth, and Draco’s knees buckle. The room is quiet except for Harry’s mouth on Draco’s body and the sounds Harry is drawing from him as Draco tries to remain upright.

Far too soon, Draco can feel it, that tightening in his gut, sparks running through him and he grabs Harry’s hair and pulls him back. “Stop, fuck, Harry, stop. I’m too close.”

Harry looks up, dazed, almost disoriented and they both freeze as Draco shivers and tries not to come all over Harry’s face.

“C’mon,” he finally whispers. “I want a shower. You want to join me?”

Harry takes a long shuddering breath and then slowly gets to his feet, his face clearing a bit.

“Yeah, okay.”

He grabs Draco by the hand and tugs him across the room through a door into a dimly-lit bathroom where more candles burn. He waves a hand and the shower starts running, steam immediately beginning to fill the room. Not taking his eyes off of Draco, he strips out of his skinny jeans and t-shirt, and Draco eyes his lean form appreciatively.

This is not the lanky body of a boy. No longer the skinny teenager that Draco remembers from school, this is a man standing in front of him, no child. He’s filled out, Draco notes, his shoulders have broadened, and clearly the artist’s life hasn’t left him soft in anyway. There are tattoos, one on his right hip, one on his left bicep, and in the dim light Draco can’t quite make out what they are, and he wants to trace them with his tongue. Draco’s eyes skim over flat abs, and down to strong thighs and muscular calves, then back to where Harry’s cock juts out from his body, red and flushed, and suddenly, Draco aches with wanting him.

He steps past Harry, brushing against him as he moves and then says over his shoulder, “Coming in?” and Harry scrambles into shower behind him.

What follows is one of the most erotic encounters of Draco’s life. There’s something about the small steam-filled enclosure that feels so private, removed from the rest of the world. The fire from earlier is, not banked exactly, but the urgency has been set aside for a moment. It feels like they have all the time the world now, to explore and touch. There are achingly gentle kisses, and hands sweeping over damp skin. Draco groans as Harry scrubs his back, then returns the favor.

After a while, Draco has no idea how long, Harry whispers, “Draco, can we?”

His grips tightens on Draco’s hips as he pulls him closer, and as their skin brushes together, just like that, the smouldering embers burst into flame and Draco gasps as Harry fastens his mouth over one nipple, his tongue flicking over the sensitive skin.

“Oh, Merlin,” Draco gasps as Harry slides his hand down to grasp Draco’s cock, running his thumb over the tip. “Yeah, yes, we can, Harry, we can.”

And it almost feels in that moment that he’s saying yes to so much more than sex.

Harry shuts off the shower and grabs a couple of towels, and the air between them is thick with anticipation as they haphazardly dry themselves off, eyes locked and then Harry seems to snap. He yanks Draco against him, claiming his mouth as his hands spread across Draco’s back to hold him close. There’s a pop, a moment of disorientation, and then they’re lying on the bed. Draco pulls back with a laugh of disbelief.

“Did you just…” He moans as Harry pushes him over onto his back and begins mouthing his way down Draco’s body. “Fucking hell, Harry. Did you just Apparate us onto your bed?”

Harry sinks down and takes Draco in his mouth, working him over for a moment before pulling off and saying, “I couldn’t wait. Fuck, Draco, I…”

His voice is hoarse with longing, and Draco is not sure he has ever felt so _seen_ or desired as he does in this moment. Harry is looking at him with unabashed yearning as his fingertip traces small circles over Draco’s hip.

He leans back on his elbows and give Harry a challenging look. There can be no doubt, no uncertainty between them tonight.

“What, exactly, do you want right now, Harry?”

“You know what I want,” Harry’s voice is low, dark, and sends a thrill straight through to Draco’s core.

“Are you sure?” Draco feels compelled to ask. “Is this…” He can’t think of the right words to ask his question. _Do you really want_ **_me_ ** _? Is this just festival madness? Just a fling?_

“Draco,” Harry’s touch is gentle as he reaches up to trace a thumb over Draco’s mouth. “Draco. It doesn’t have to be that complicated. I just… want you.” There’s a rush of magic and suddenly the hand wrapped around Draco’s cock is slick with warm, fragrant oil. “And I think you want me.” He rubs his hand along Draco’s length, firm and steady. “We can do anything you want, I just want to make you feel good. But I know what I want.”

There’s another rush of magic and suddenly Draco’s hand is covered in the same warm oil. He watches, wide-eyed, as Harry moves up the bed next to him and rolls onto his stomach, unabashedly arching his back. He looks over his shoulder at Draco and grins. “You in?”

Draco rolls onto his side and sits up, careful not to drip oil on the crisp, dark sheets. He runs his not-oil covered hand down Harry’s spine and over the curve of his arse, and then shifts to press a kiss to the dimples on Harry’s back at the bottom of his spine.

“Oh, I’m in,” he says, and traces a slick finger down between Harry’s well-defined glutes. “I’m definitely in.”

Harry shudders under Draco’s teasing touch, his head dropping down onto his arms, and Draco leans over again and gets to work. It’s been a while since he’s been intimate with someone like this, and even longer since he’s topped, but judging by the sounds he’s drawing from Harry, he hasn’t entirely forgotten how it’s done. One finger becomes two, and then three, and Harry looks as dazed as Draco feels when their eyes meet as Draco withdraws his fingers.

“I think,” Draco coughs and clears his throat. “Fuck, Harry, are you ready?”

Suddenly, he’s shaking a bit. Harry had said this didn’t need to be complicated, but, Draco wonders, given their history and who they are now, could it be anything but? He has a feeling that what’s starting here may change his life in ways he can’t even anticipate, and he’s not sure he’s going to be able to walk away whole from this. Or even if he’ll want to.

“Yeah,” Harry says, his gaze intent as he watches Draco slick himself up and mutter the spells. “Just, go slow. It’s been a while.”

Draco lines up, trying to balance between the power needed to breach Harry’s body, and pushing in too quickly and hurting him. He moves slowly, hands on Harry’s hips as he gently pushes in, thursting gently and pulling back, working up a rhythm. He feels Harry’s body relax and open for him as he presses forward, and Harry gives a groan as he pushes in, deeper and deeper.

“God, Draco, you feel so…”

Harry shifts and Draco leans over, resting his weight on one hand while he reaches the other around to slide over Harry’s cock, hot and heavy in his hand.

As he grasps the hard length that quivers under his touch, Draco mutters, “Do that spell again, would you?”

Harry’s shoulders brace as he shifts back against Draco and grunts, and then Draco’s hand is slick and warm and it’s fucking _magnificent,_ the feel of Harry under his thumb as he sinks into the hot heat of his body over and over again. Draco tries to go slow, tries to be gentle but Harry is having none of it at this point. He’s driving his body back to meet Draco, push for push, force for force, thrust for thrust.

“Faster,” he pants. “Fucking _move,_ Draco, faster. More.”

The room is filled with the honest sound of flesh against flesh, of Harry’s gasps and Draco’s groans. The scent of sex fills the air and Harry’s golden skin seems to shimmer in the candlelight as they move together.

“Fuck, Draco, I’m close,” Harry pants. “I’m so fucking close,” and Draco clasps him tighter, adding a twist to the end of each stroke and then all of sudden, Harry is groaning out, “Fuck, I’m coming, you’re making me…” and Draco feels Harry’s release spurt over his hand as his body clenches around Draco’s cock.

It’s so much, and as Harry turns his head to give Draco a teasing look over his shoulder, Draco feels that telltale sensation deep within his body, rising white-hot through him, and without thinking, he pulls out, and using Harry’s come to ease the slide, jacks himself off hard and fast until he’s coming with a deep groan over Harry’s back. It’s dirty, and glorious, and quite possibly the hottest moment of Draco’s life.

“Well, Draco Malfoy,” Harry says, sounding deeply amused even as he’s catching his breath, “Aren’t you a filthy fucker?”

Draco is leaning over him, resting his weight on his arms, his chest pressed to Harry’s back as he tries to catch his breath. He ignores the mess between them while the aftershocks of his orgasm still spark underneath his skin. Finally, he moves, collapsing onto the pillow as Harry drops down and rolls onto his side, looking at him with impossibly bright eyes.

“Maybe,” he says finally. “Not usually, actually. I don’t… It’s been a while.”

Harry doesn’t answer, just gives a murmur and a wave, the brisk tingle of a cleaning spell shivers over Draco’s skin and he shudders a bit at the sensation.

“So,” he says finally, reluctantly. “I should…”

“No,” Harry says, leaning over to press a gentle kiss to his lips. “No, you really shouldn’t.”

Draco stares and something inside of him seems to give way under the tender touch. “You want me to stay?”

Harry reaches one hand down to pull up the sheet. In the dim light of the candles, Draco can’t tell if it’s dark blue or black, but the fabric is heavy, clearly high quality linen and it feels delicious against his over-sensitive skin. Harry gives a wave of his hand, and the candles go out, leaving behind the redolent scents of smoke and wax and sex. The room is dark, and in the quiet, Draco feels Harry shift, and then curl around him, draping an arm over his abdomen.

“Just… stay, Draco. Please.”

And drifting into sleep, basking in the unfamiliar warmth of a body next to him, Draco does.

When Draco wakes, disoriented, he has no idea how much time has passed. The room is still and quiet now, but dimly lit as the just-past-full moon shines in through the windows. He rolls over and remembers where he is, and registers that he’s alone in the bed. He sees the dark shape of Harry sitting in the window seat, the glow of the moon lighting his face. He’s looking at the bed, at Draco, who props himself up on his elbows, the sheet pooling down at his waist. Draco can’t quite read the look on Harry’s face.

“Watching me sleep?” he asks, his voice rough, and then stretches and shifts, letting the sheet slip down a bit more. “Bit creepy, innit?”

So quietly, he almost misses it, Harry lets out a long sigh as he watches Draco.

“I don’t know. Thinking some things through. But fuck, Draco.” Suddenly Harry leaps to his feet and walks across the room to grab a padded bag. “Can I take your photograph? You have no fucking idea how you look right now.”

Draco stares at him as Harry rummages in his bag, pulling out the largest camera Draco has ever seen. “You want to take my photo? Isn’t too dark?”

Harry is almost ignoring him as he mutters under his breath and adjusts settings on the camera. “No,” he says, focusing intently, “No, I can make it work. Fuck, my tripod’s in London. _Why_ is my tripod in London?” He looks up, a bit wild-eyed, and frowns. “I hate the fucking tripod charm.”

He mutters a spell that Draco doesn’t know, and the camera levitates. Harry adjusts it, and then moves away and approaches Draco on the bed. He adjusts the sheet a bit, and then lifts his hand to tilt Draco’s head down and to the side a bit.

“Fuck, like that. Just like that.”

His voice is low and excited, and Draco quirks an eyebrow as he stares at Harry. He’s pulled on some loose boxer shorts, which are, if Draco’s not mistaken, starting to tent out a bit as Harry works, and it hits Draco like a bludger how much he has to learn about this man.

“Just— keep that look, like you think I’m insane,” Harry says as he moves around, and makes one last adjustment to the camera.

“That won’t be difficult, Potter,” Draco says. “Because unless I miss my guess, this is turning you on.”

“Draco,” Harry says, and the camera begins clicking. “I’ve got you in my bed, looking so beautiful. And,” he peeks around the camera and grins, “looking thoroughly shagged out as well, I might add. Of course I want to take a photograph.”

“What the hell kind of art do you do?” Draco asks suddenly, realising why that the manic gleam in Harry’s eye is familiar to him. He’s fairly sure he had the same look last night when he’d stayed up all night writing _Two Ghosts._

Harry shrugs, looks through the viewfinder and tilts the camera a bit. “Mixed media,” he says. “Told you, I’ve got a show opening in London at the end of the summer.”

The camera finally stops shooting, and Harry waves a hand, sending it over to land gently on the window seat cushion. He turns his gaze back to Draco, and starts moving slowly towards the bed, and Draco feels his heart begin to race.

“And now,” Harry whispers as he reaches out to draw a finger down over Draco’s chest. “Here we are, up in the middle of the night.” He leans in, captures Draco’s mouth with his own, and Draco drops back onto the pillows, yanking Harry down on top of him. “Whatever shall we do?”

Draco can’t remember the last time he laughed with a lover like this, the last time he felt so light and playful, as he rolls Harry over onto his back and straddles him, his own cock starting to pay attention to the proceedings. He leans down, begins mouthing along Harry’s jawline, feeling the stubble under his tongue. He has no idea how he’s got so lucky, and with Harry fucking Potter of all people, but he’s going to enjoy every moment of this, he thinks to himself, every fucking moment until it’s over.

“I think,” Draco says, shifting down the bed to mouth along Harry’s chest, “I’ve got an idea.”

*****

The next time Draco wakes, it’s clearly late morning, maybe even afternoon, and the room is filled with light. Unlike earlier, when he’d woken alone in the bed, this time, Harry is curled up next to him, mouth soft, eyelashes fanning across this cheekbones. The stubble is heavy on his jawline, and Draco rubs his thighs together with a small grin, remember the early morning activities that put the beard burn on his legs. He shifts and sits up, letting his eyes trace down Harry’s body, and grins as Harry moves and the sheet falls away, revealing the intricate tattoo across his right hip, the one he couldn’t see last night in the dark. He feels Ellie shift under the surface of his skin, swimming down to wind around his wrist as he reaches his hand out.

It’s a water lily in half-bloom. The flower is soft pinks fading to whites, nestled in blue water. There are green leaves, and then underneath, roots trailing down Harry’s thigh to wrap around his knee. As Draco traces a thumb over it, the flower blossoms, the water shimmers, and the scent of what Draco presumes is lily fills the air. Draco’s eyes widen and he can’t believe he missed this last night.

Harry stirs, and rolls onto his back, throwing one arm over his eyes. The stag on his arm, gorgeously rendered in black and grey, stirs and turns its head.

“I didn’t know they’d added the olfactory spell,” Draco says, and Harry smiles without moving his arm.

“It’s new. Dean’s still working it out a bit, but I was a test case.”

“It’s gorgeous,” Draco says, watching the lily settle back into its half-bloom state.

Harry’s arm drops down to his side and he looks up at Draco. Something about the way the light is shining on him, the hopeful smile on his face, makes Draco’s heart lurch, and it scares him. It’s too much, too soon. Too intimate for a festival fling. He shuts it down, looks away and then starts as Harry sits up quickly, eyes fixed on his face.

“Where’d you just go?”

“What do you mean?” Draco asks, pulling the sheet up to cover his chest. “I’m right here, Potter.”

“I mean,” Harry says firmly, “I can feel the ice coming off of you. Spill it, Malfoy.”

Draco pulls his knees up and lets his head drop down to them. The words escape him and he reflects on the habit of honesty he’s cultivated in the past several years, even as he speaks. “I don’t know know what I’m doing here, Harry.” He wraps his arms around his knees and sighs.

He feels Harry move, reaching over to trace along his arm where Ellie is stretched out, displaying herself. “Who’s this, then? She’s gorgeous.”

Draco feels Ellie shift a bit and knows she preening under the touch. She’s surprisingly tactile for a dragon. Julio had told him dragon tattoos tended to be a bit shy and aloof, but not Ellie. Always clambering down from her perch to see what’s going on.

“That’s Ellie. She’s a Swedish Short-Snout.” Harry traces a thumb along the shimmering blue scales of her back, and she casts him a flirty look before letting out a short burst of brilliant blue flame, and Draco shudders. “Ellie, fuck. C’mon.”

He shakes his arm and quick as lightning, she slides up to wrap around his shoulder.

“Does it hurt,” Harry asks, “when she breathes fire?”

“Not exactly,” Draco says. “More like a sort of nervy tingle. She knows I don’t like it.”

Harry laughs. “Of course you have a contrary tattoo, Draco. Now, come on. Tell me what was going through your mind?”

Draco wraps his arms around his knees, and looks about the room, finally getting a good look at his surroundings, taking in the details he’d missed in the dark, the night before.

The room is wide, running most of the width of the tent, with a large window seat that looks so inviting in the light of day that Draco mentally kicks himself for foregoing that option in his own tent. There’s a heavy oak wardrobe, a battered trunk at the foot of the bed which is, Draco thinks, quite possibly Harry’s old school trunk. The bed itself is gorgeous. It’s a simple wrought iron frame, square posts with round finials, in a dull pewter finish. The sheets (linen, he was right) are deep indigo, and the pillowcases and duvet cover are a heavy dark silver-grey silk damask. It’s a cozy room, and looks lived-in, making Draco wonder just how much time Harry spends on the road, pursuing his artistic vision.

“C’mon,” Harry nudges him and Draco’s heart flutters when he drops a quick kiss onto Draco’s bare shoulder. “Spill.”

“Why did you invite me to stay last night?” Draco asks finally.

“Because I wanted to.” Harry shrugs, as if the answer could really be that simple. He seems disinclined to say more and Draco frowns.

“I just,” Draco says, trying to find the words. “You don’t think this is an odd pairing?” He gestures between them. “You and me? You don’t find this utterly bizarre?”

“Well, in some ways,” Harry shrugs. “Yeah, I guess I could see that.”

Draco stares at him.

Harry sighs. “You’re not the only one who’s had to do a lot of… soul-searching, I guess I’d call it.”

Draco slides down to recline against the pillows. “I guess I can’t understand why you don’t hate me anymore.”

Harry mimics his movement, turns on his side to lean his head on his hand and look at Draco.  
“Well, it’s actually a bit of a funny story, really.”

“Oh?” Draco looks at him and is struck again with wonder that he’s here with Potter. With _Harry._

Harry grins. “So, it was maybe four years ago or so. I was back from Africa, I’d been over there painting and stuff, and Michael and I were out clubbing.” He pauses and then says quietly, “Michael was my boyfriend. We, err. We broke up.”

Draco feels a pang at the easy mention of Harry’s ex, but lets it go. He’s dying to ask questions but he wants Harry to keep talking even more, so he holds his tongue.

“Anyway, we were at the Flamboyant Pheasant, that’s a gay club on Diagon, it had just opened, and then this song came on.”

Draco thinks back to 2004 and wonders which song it was.

“And I’d never felt anything like that,” Harry says, eyes distant as he remembers. “It was fucking _electric._ Everyone there seemed to know it, the whole club was singing along, and it felt. It was amazing, and I thought, ‘I have to know who sings this.’”

“Let me guess,” Draco says, “It was _It’s My Life?”_

“Nope,” Harry says with obvious enjoyment, “It was a remix of this song by this band I’d never heard of, the song was _Any Other Way.”_

Draco stares and then remembers. “Oh Merlin, that’s right. I’d forgotten about that. It feels like such a rock song to me, but that band, who was it?”

“Amortentia,” Harry supplies and Draco nods.

“That’s right, they did a club remix. That was good.”

He can’t deny that there’s a deep thrill to knowing that Harry has listened to his music, that it’s meant something to him.

“It was incredible, and something about it, it just called to me. I went to the record store the next day and found out it was a cover, and they told me about the EP, and I wore it out. I didn’t even realise at first that it was you, I was just so hooked on the music.”

Draco looks over and shakes his head. “I can’t quite believe it. I mean, I’m so glad.” He pauses and then says ruefully, “Would you believe me if I told you that I didn’t even realise until yesterday that I’d actually written that… for you?”

Harry rolls on top of Draco and kisses him thoroughly until Draco pushes him away, laughing. “I can’t breathe. Get off!”

Harry rolls away, clearly unrepentant. His voice is a bit husky as he says, “After I found out that this band that I loved was you, and that you were the songwriter, I… I guess I wondered a bit? I mean, that song just felt like mine, you know? It spoke to me.”

“Well, the healing power of music is well-known, Potter,” Draco says, affecting a superior tone to disguise how moved he is by Harry’s words, and Harry snorts and elbows him gently.

“It just, it intrigued me, made me wonder how someone I’d hated could write these songs. Then when the full album came out, I was even more blown away. Made me wonder how I’d missed this at school. Or how you’d changed since then. I don’t know, a lot of things.”

Draco nods, caught in Harry’s gaze. He remembers how desperately he’d wanted Harry to pay attention to him, before everything had gone so very wrong, and how potent his focus feels now.

“I guess I felt like I got to know you through your music, and I realised that maybe I’d been wrong about you.”

“You weren’t,” Draco says, his throat aching. “You weren’t wrong about me, Harry. I did terrible things. I’ve tried to make amends but you can’t, really.”

Harry looks at Draco silently for a long moment, and then sighs. “We all did terrible things, Draco. It was a war. I’m not saying that you were right in what you believed. Just that I realised that you’d never had the chance to be anything other than what you’d been. And when you had the chance to do better, you did it. And that was interesting to me. That when you had a choice, you made a good one. Made me want to get to know you more.”

Harry shrugs and runs his hand over Draco’s bare stomach. His palm is warm, and there’s a streak of blue paint across the knuckles of his right hand.

“I did a lot of things I didn’t want to back then. Afterwards too, for a long time. We all did, in service of the war that was left to us.” He takes a deep breath. “When Kingsley came to me and offered me a position with the Aurors, without even having to complete my NEWTs, honestly I thought he was crazy. I couldn’t go to Diagon Alley without getting mobbed. I had panic attacks. Nightmares. And I’d had enough of it, you know? Enough of the darkness.”

Draco does know, is the thing. He knows he was part of that darkness. He’s come to understand how deeply wrong his parents had been, how he’d been brainwashed into complicity, and he remembers standing on the eastern tip of the United States, staring out over the ocean back towards England and watching the sun rise, thinking _I’ll never go back to that. Never._ He’s learned since then, though, you can’t ever really leave the darkness behind when you carry it inside of you. He nods as Harry continues.

“I learned how to take into account what I want. I learned to move on and let go. Not always perfectly.” Harry laughs at some unshared memory. “And I learned that other people are always going to let you put their wants first. It seemed to me, no one else was focusing on what I wanted or needed, so I had to do that for myself.”

Draco says quietly, “I think I’ve learned something like that too.”

“So I asked you to stay because I wanted you to. Last night was really good,” Harry says as he leans in and presses another kiss to Draco’s shoulder. “I know we don’t know each other well yet, not really. Not as who we are now. But I want to. I want to see you again. Spend time with you, get to know you in the present. But,” suddenly a frown crosses his face, “I haven’t even asked, I’m sorry. What are your plans? Are you leaving England?”

“I’m staying in London,” Draco says after a pause. “I’m not going back to Las Vegas for a while. I’m not sure. I’m going to be staying with Blaise. I’d—” He takes a deep breath, feeling like he’s about to jump off a cliff, and maybe he is. “I’d like to see you while I’m there. And if I’m still here, at the end of the summer, I’d love to come to your show.”

As Draco says the words, a smile breaks like dawn over Harry’s face and he leans in to kiss Draco quite thoroughly.

“Okay,” Harry says and exhales suddenly as if he’d been holding his breath a bit. “Yeah, okay. That sounds good.”

They look at each for a moment and then Draco says, “What time is it anyway?”

Harry casts a quick Tempus and Draco swears when he sees the result. “Fuck, I’ve got to get going. I’ve got a 5:30 Portkey.”

Harry raises an eyebrow and grins. “Portkey, huh. Fancy. Apparating too plebeian for the rockstar?”

Draco snorts. “Hardly, but I haven’t been to London in ten years, and I don’t know where I’m going. Theo thought it’d be smarter if I just Portkeyed to Blaise’s so I don’t splinch myself into a building…”

He climbs out of bed and stands, watching Harry’s eyes trace over his form as he stretches and Harry gives a groan that is half-appreciation and half-regret, and stands as well.

“Here,” he says, rummaging in his dresser and tossing some clothes to Draco. “Wear these.”

Draco pulls on the loose shorts and t-shirt, and runs a hand through his hair, knowing there’s nothing to be done about it. He picks up the clothes that he’d strewn about the room the night before, and carefully folds them up and follows Harry down the stairs, where he grabs up his boots. They stare at each other and Draco has to suppress a smirk as all of a sudden, all he can think is, _I was inside him last night._

“What?” Harry asks, his own mouth curving in response as Draco’s grin widens.

“Just, you know.” Draco feels suddenly vulnerable and looks away. “Well, Potter. It’s been fun.” He wiggles his pile of clothes awkwardly and starts when Harry jolts forward and presses a quick kiss to his mouth.

“It wasn’t a one-off,” Harry says firmly and Draco flushes. “I mean it, Draco. Not that there’s anything wrong with that, but that’s not what I want. So, I’ll be in touch in London.”

He moves behind Draco to open the door, and Draco, feeling like he’s somehow been left behind, missed some crucial shift in their relationship, walks through. He turns to say good-bye and opens his mouth once more to question.

“No,” Harry says firmly. “I’ll see you in London,” and shuts the door in his face.

Bemused, Draco stands for a moment longer and then turns, making his way back to his own tent.

He showers quickly and throws on clothes that will be fine for travel. Then he makes his way through the tent, casting the necessary charms to lock everything into place before he packs up the tent. He pauses when he sees the packet of letters, and then finally, before he can second-guess himself, he grabs them and shoves them into his battered leather carryall. One more look around, and then he hauls his trunk downstairs and prepares to leave. He casts and the tent neatly folds itself up into wizard space and compiles itself in a compact canvas bundle that he lightens and tosses into the trunk.

He turns around to wait for Theo to show up with his portkey. It’s quiet, most of the tents around them have already been taken down, even in the VIP area and for a moment Draco feels a bit disconcerted at how empty it is. Then the door to Harry’s tent opens, and Harry comes out, blinking in the bright light of the summer afternoon. His hair is an absolute disaster, he’s wearing paint-stained grey joggers cut off at the knees and an old band t-shirt that’s more hole than shirt, and the ugliest sandals known to man. He looks, Draco thinks, absolutely delicious.

Harry makes his way over to where Draco is perched on the top of his trunk, and smiles, slow and sweet.

“Amazing, isn’t it? How it all packs down?”

Draco grins, holding up a hand to shield his eyes as he looks at Harry. There’s a moment of silence that almost feels awkward, when Theo bustles up, already in mid-sentence.

“—so does that sound good? We’ll get together next week to start talking about what we’re doing next. Oh.” Theo pauses, and stares. “Err, hello, Potter. Harry. Er.” He flushes and looks away, and Draco takes pity on him.

“Turns out Harry’s been a bit of a fan, Theo, he was just telling me how much he enjoyed the shows. Weren’t you, Potter?”

Harry shoots Draco a small, private grin and then says, “Yeah, absolutely. Amazing shows, both nights.”

“Oh, good. Great,” Theo says. “And I heard you have an art show opening later this summer?”

“Yeah, in a couple of months,” Potter says easily. “The opening gala is in August. The twenty third, I think. I can put you all on the list, if you want?”

He doesn’t look at Draco as he says this, but Draco can feel the amusement rolling off of him.

“Oh.” Theo blinks at him in surprise. “Err, yes. That’s decent of you.”

“Great,” Potter says. “Just owl me the list of who you want, I’ll get it taken care of.” He turns to Draco, who freezes at the determined look in his eyes, and before he knows what’s happening, Harry has leaned over and is kissing him firmly. “I’ll owl you in London, Draco. I’ve got to get packed up, too.” He kisses Draco again, gently this time, and turns away, leaving Draco dazed.

“Um,” Theo says and Draco turns to stare blankly at him. “Okay. Never mind. You know what? I don’t think I need to know.”

He hands over a cracked teacup and casts a quick Tempus. “Have you got everything? Know where you’re going? Good. I’ll see you next week.”

He moves back, and Draco hops off his trunk and, slinging his bag over his shoulder, grabs the drag handle, and as the portkey activates, whirling him away, the last thing he sees is Theo pressing a hand to his face as he shakes his head and Draco can clearly read his lips as Theo mouths, “What the actual fuck?”


	3. Chapter 2: show me where my armor ends

**LONDON**

When Draco arrives in London, he’s directed from the London Central Portkey Station to a cab stand. A hansom cab, drawn by two gorgeous matched bays, transports him and all his luggage to the lovely Zabini townhouse in Kensington, and with a start, Draco realises that his own family’s townhouse is not but two blocks away. He could be there in ten minutes if he wanted.

He spends the next couple of days hibernating. It’s weird being back in the UK, not to mention London, and he’s not quite ready to venture out and test the waters until Blaise says firmly one night, “Draco. We’re going out for drinks tonight. There are people who want to see you. We won’t be bothered at the Leaky, so we’ll be meeting Pansy, Norah and Theo there at 7:00. And maybe some others, so for God’s sake, take a fucking shower.”

By the time they make their way down the street and into the Leaky, Draco is a ball of anxiety at the thought of these unknown people. Blaise refuses to tell him who else is planning to come and it’s making Draco a bit mad. He’s changed his trousers twice, snapped at Blaise three times and fucked up his hair with an overly enthusiastic drying charm that’s left him fluffier than he knows how to handle.

Blaise had finally shoved him onto the sofa, handed him a shot of firewhiskey and growled, “Just, don’t talk anymore until we’re there, and seated. Okay?” and had stalked from the room to change clothes.

The Leaky is dark after the bright warmth of the summer evening, and Draco blinks a bit and lets his eyes adjust as he follows Blaise across the room. He hears a murmur start to spread as they make their way to a large, round corner table where there is already a person seated, though as his eyes are still adjusting, Draco can’t quite make out who it is. He feels his heart rate accelerate, and takes a deep breath, keeping his eyes on the floor. It’s not hostile, he doesn’t think. He’s safe here. He slides into a seat, and after he’s settled, he finally looks around the table and freezes for a moment before turning to look at Blaise.

“Blaise, darling,” he says suspiciously, “just who are we meeting out tonight?” and from across the table, Luna Lovegood smiles gently at him.

“Hullo, Draco,” she says and actually gives a little wave.

While he hasn’t seen her in over ten years, they’ve had contact, actually. Hers was the first letter Draco had actually sent, and she’d replied immediately, gracious and forgiving, and they’ve had an odd and inconsistent correspondence ever since. At first, it had always been initiated by Luna. She’d send him random postcards from around the world with some funny observation or commentary and eventually, Draco had started doing the same. Last he’d heard, she’d been in South America studying carnivorous flutterbys or some such thing, and he’s surprised to see her.

“Luna,” he says finally. “I didn’t expect to see you.”

Luna smiles and says, “I’ve been back in the UK for just a few days. I’ll be here for the rest of the summer, and for Harry’s show, of course. I heard you’re planning to be there?”

“I certainly hope so,” says a dry, amused voice from behind and Draco freezes, and glares at Blaise who is suddenly very involved in chatting with Luna.

Harry sets down a tray of pints on the table and slides into the seat next to Draco.

“Hey,” he murmurs, in a tone that’s far too intimate for the amount of time they’ve actually spent together, even if it half of it was naked.

“Hey,” Draco says and as he casts about for something to say, he’s interrupted by Luna.

“Oh,” she says, glancing between Harry and Draco with a tone of immense satisfaction. “Of, of course.” She grins.

The evening ends up being the four of them for about an hour, and eventually Pansy, Norah and Theo show up. Draco is shocked at how easily the conversation flows, and at how the shadow of the war seems distant and transparent.

At about ten o’clock, the party starts to break up and Draco is a bit surprised at the flash of regret he feels at ending the night.

“This was great,” Blaise says, as they all move to standing. “We should do it again.”

As they make their way through the pub, Harry grabs Draco’s arm. “Hey, um.” He seems nervous, almost tongue-tied. “I was wondering, would you like to take a walk for a bit? With me?”

Draco pauses and then nods. It’s been equal parts exciting and awful, having Harry right next to him, their arms brushing now and then, and being unable to just reach out and touch him. The strength of that desire has him concerned, but after three pints, he’s not going to let go of this opportunity.

“Let me just tell Blaise,” Draco says, and turns away, feeling Harry’s fingers linger as they brush across his arm.

After Draco lets Blaise know he won’t be home right away, and rolls his eyes at Blaise’s knowing smirk, he and Harry pause in front of the pub.

“So, Potter.” Draco can’t help smiling. “Where to?”

“Well,” Harry says, “what about ice cream? Diagon Alley?”

Draco takes a deep breath and can’t help the burst of anxiety in his chest. “I don’t know. I mean…” His voice trails off and he stares helplessly at Harry for a moment.

Harry’s gaze softens. “We don’t have to, Draco. We don’t have to do anything you’re not comfortable with. I just.” He runs a hand through his hair. “I don’t want to hide, you know? I mean, I’m not looking to take out a full page ad in the _Prophet_ , but I’m not hiding that I know you. That we’re… friends.”

Draco can’t help the smile that crosses his face as he quirks one eyebrow, anxiety diminishing in the banter. “Friends, Potter? Is that we are?”

Harry shrugs, and guides Draco back through the pub and out to the entrance of Diagon Alley. “Let’s get ice cream, Malfoy, and see where we are, hmm?”

Draco is shocked again at how easy it is, to wander down Diagon Alley with Harry at his side. There are familiar sights and new establishments he’s never heard of. The clothing in the storefronts is decidedly influenced by Muggle fashion, and Draco is amused to see a Starbucks sharing a storefront with the WWN mobile store. So far, at least, no one seems to have recognised him, and Draco can’t help the shivers up his spine as Harry’s arm brushes against his own as they walk.

There’s a comfortable silence between them and Draco takes a moment simply to enjoy it. It’s crowded for ten thirty on a Monday night, probably due to the warmth of the early summer evening. He glances over to see Harry looking back at him and grins.

They make their way into Fortescue’s, which is surprisingly empty given the crowd outside, and look over their choices. A beautiful woman Draco vaguely recognises from Hogwarts smiles at them from behind the counter.

“Harry Potter,” she says in delight, and yells into the back room, “Lav, come out, Harry’s here,” even as she hurries out from behind the counter.

Another woman comes running out and throws her arms around Harry, her eyes sparkling in delight. Draco tries not to stare at the thick scar that bisects her cheek, dropping his eyes and feeling suddenly awkward and entirely out of place.

“Padma, Lav,” Harry says, extracting himself from their embrace as they seem to realise that there’s someone else in the room. “This is—”

“Oh,” Lavender interrupts, her voice notably cooler as she looks Draco over. “I know who this is, Harry, don’t be an idiot. Draco.” She nods but makes no move to hold out a hand.

“Padma and Lavender re-opened the shop after the war,” Harry says and Draco nods, having no idea what to say.

Harry turns to the women, and Draco notes that they’ve withdrawn a bit, and Padma’s wrapped her arm firmly around Lavender’s waist, and he can see the way her thumb presses into Lavender’s side, offering presence and comfort.

“Draco is—” Harry starts and Lavender interrupts again, rolling her eyes and there’s a bit of humor that’s crept back into her voice.

“Come on, Harry, we all know what Draco’s been doing.” She turns and looks at him, actually meets his eyes, takes a deep breath and then holds out a hand. “Draco. I never replied to your letter, but it meant a lot, so. Thank you.”

They shake hands and Draco feels like he’s being offered something he never, ever could have anticipated.

“I like your band,” Padma says quietly. “Especially the newest album.”

There’s a moment of silence and then Lavender deliberately lightens the mood.

“So, boys,” she says briskly, “what can we get you tonight?”

When they leave with their double scoop ice creams (Draco sticks with chocolate, one with honeycomb and the other with gingerbread, while Harry ambitiously pairs a masala chai with a lemon and cardamom), Draco takes a long, deep breath and deliberately drops his shoulders as he licks at his cone. It’s absolutely delicious and he feels a wave of emotion he can’t quite identify as he remembers Sunday brunches at the incredibly stuffy Walrus and Lobster, with ice cream to follow with his parents when he was young.

They wander by unspoken agreement in companionable silence back down Diagon and through the courtyard at the Leaky and out into Muggle London.

They’re almost to Blaise’s townhouse. The night around them is quiet, the street empty as Harry says thoughtfully, “That went quite well, all things considered. And just so you know, Padma will be on the Floonet immediately to fill in the rest of the gossip chain.”

“Fill them in on what?” Draco wonders, licking at the drip of ice cream running down his wrist.

He hears Harry give a soft groan and can’t help teasing a little, looking over to meet Harry’s eyes as he flicks his tongue out to lap at his arm again.

“Just that you were there. With me. That we were together. Fuck’s sake, Draco,” and then the last of Harry’s ice cream hits the ground with a splat as he grabs Draco and spins him around to press him up against the brick wall running the length of Blaise’s neighbour’s property.

Then his mouth is on Draco’s, hot and demanding, and Draco abandons his own cone without a second thought as he wraps his arms around Harry and dives in. They kiss until Draco is breathless, his mouth is tender and raw, lips swollen, and he can feel the hard line of Harry pressed against his thigh. He contemplates asking Harry in, Blaise’s uninvited commentary be damned, but for a reason he can’t quite name, he doesn’t feel inclined to take this any further tonight. Eventually, the kisses gentle until they’re standing quietly, simply pressed together in the warmth of the summer evening.

“I should go,” Harry says finally, the reluctance in his voice clear.

Draco makes an undignified sound of displeasure that he would most certainly deny if anyone were ever to confront him about it and pulls Harry closer.

“I should,” Harry insists, making no move to free himself from Draco’s embrace. “I’ve got things to do tomorrow, and you do as well, don’t you? Band business meeting and all that?”

“Fine,” Draco sighs and loosens his grip. “When did you become so maddeningly responsible, Potter? I seem to recall you being rather impulsive back in the day.”

Harry grins. “What about Wednesday? Are you free?”

Draco considers for a moment and then smiles back. “I could be, yeah. Why, what did you have in mind?”

Harry presses a quick kiss to Draco’s lips and then moves away to back down the pavement, maintaining eye contact for a long moment. “Just, save the day for me, okay? I’ve got an idea.” He waits until Draco nods, and then turns to walk back the way they came.

“Oh, and Draco?” His voice floats over his shoulder. “You’re lucky I have developed some impulse control, or I’d be on my knees for you right here, right now.”

Draco lets his head thunk back against the brick wall with a heartfelt groan, pressing a hand to his cock, which gives an enthusiastic throb at Harry’s words, and considers changing his mind.

“That’s just not fair, Potter,” he hisses as Harry keeps walking. “You can’t just leave me here like this. Bloody tease.”

He hears Harry’s snort of laughter and then Harry says, “Think of me while you take care of that, okay?”

And Draco does.

Twice.

**First Date**

“A picnic.” Draco stares at Harry, who is standing at his door, holding a variety of lumpy packages and looking, well, really good, to be honest.

“Yeah,” Harry shrugs, looking almost boyish in jeans and a jumper. “I thought it’d be fun. It’s a gorgeous day.”

Draco peers suspiciously up at the sky, which is dark and cloudy, and blinks as a fat raindrop splashes off of his nose.

“In France,” Harry clarifies. “It’s a gorgeous day in Nice.”

“You want to take me to France. For a picnic. Right now.”

“Yes,” Harry says. “Right now. I want to to take you to France for a picnic. There’s rose gardens.” He grins. “I have a Portkey.”

Draco shrugs and smiles back. “Sounds good. Let me get my coat.”

The Portkey lands them by the side of a dirt road, more of a track in the grass, really, and in the distance, Draco can see a stone wall with tall metal gates, and behind that he can see the outline of a great Manor.

As they make their way towards it, Harry says, “I spent a couple of years in the village that’s to the west.” He gestures with his shoulder, and Draco frowns.

“Do you want me to carry something? What do you have there, anyway?”

“Sure.” Harry hands over the picnic basket, which is surprisingly heavy.

“Fuck, Potter, no shrinking or lightening charm?”

Harry shrugs. “I don’t like them for food. It always tastes weird to me when you unshrink it,” and Draco snorts at that.

“I’ve always thought that too, but everyone told me I was crazy.”

They exchange a conspiratorial grin, and Draco flushes.

When he’s with Harry, it feels exciting and settled all once. The brush of Harry’s arm against his raises goosebumps and he’s so aware of Harry’s body next to his own, but somehow, also, he feels calmer. Settled somehow. Like he has no idea where they’re going and he’s content simply to enjoy the ride. He looks at the rolling countryside surrounding them, sees the deep blue of the sky, smells the grass and earth. It’s beautiful here, even if he doesn’t know where he is. It’s beautiful, he’s here with Harry, and surprising as that is, it’s enough.

“Where did you say we are, again?” Draco asks.

“We’re outside of Nice. This estate used to belong to a branch of the Delacour family, the Lefebvres, but the family died out in the plague in the 1700s. The French Ministry of Magic bought it, and now it’s a destination hotel. When I was just getting started, I did the photography for their brochures. They do lots of events, that sort of thing. They’ve also got a working vineyard. I thought we could have dinner later in the hotel, try the wine.”

Draco blinks a bit. “Wait, this is Le Clos des Roses? I’ve heard of it, even in America. But, where is everyone? Isn’t this prime wedding season? I’d expect it to be busy.”

“They’ve been doing some renovations,” Harry says. “They’re reopening to the public tomorrow, but they, err.” He looks a bit embarrassed. “They’re having us here today as a bit of a favour to me. Jacques and I are quite good friends, and I just wanted to to be alone with you. I hope that’s okay?” He actually looks a bit nervous.

Draco stares at him, feels his heart trip in his chest. “Potter. This is. My goodness. This is too much. I can’t…”

Harry shrugs. “Too late now,” he says cheerfully. “I’ve already paid. So we might as well enjoy it. And Draco.” He pauses as they approach the gates. “It’s not too much, okay? I just want some space to get to know you.”

A woman in a dark, conservative suit nods at them, but says nothing, simply making a tick mark on her clipboard as Harry leads Draco past her and down a walkway around the side of the elegant estate house. They wander on the tree-shaded path, through lush gardens with gracious fountains, and then through a gate in a large hedge that brings them into a secluded courtyard, with abundant rose bushes all around the edges. The air is redolent with the scent of the flowers that are hanging heavy on the branches, and Draco pauses, turning slowly to take it all in as Harry sets down the things he’s carrying. They’re the only ones here, and it’s quiet in the way that the city never is, though not silent. Draco hears birdsong in the distance, and the whir of insects. The sky is the deep blue of early summer, studded with white clouds, and it’s warm enough that Draco sets down the picnic basket and pulls off his jacket, but it’s not too humid. In short, it’s a gorgeous day. Perfect, maybe.

“You were right,” Draco says, turning to watch Harry shake out the comfortable, patchwork quilt that he’s just unshrunk. “It’s a beautiful day in France.”

Harry looks up, and Draco’s breath catches as a smile plays about Harry’s lips. “Told you,” is all he says. “You should trust me more, Draco. I’ll do my best never to lie to you.”

The air is warm and somehow heavy between them, and it feels important, almost as if Harry is making a promise, and all Draco can do is nod, holding Harry’s gaze.

Draco finally looks away, and grabs the picnic basket, eager for something to focus on that isn’t Harry’s gaze that sees too much, understands too much.

“Well, Potter,” he says finally, setting the basket down. “Consider me impressed. What’s on your agenda today?”

Harry moves some of the other things he’s brought out of the way and drops down onto the blanket. “I’ve got food, wine, cards. I thought we could just spend time together. Talk. Get to know each other in the light of day.”

Draco sits down next to him, and leans back his elbows, shutting his eyes to let the sun warm his face. “Sounds good to me.”

So that’s what they do. Harry talks about his time in France, and Madame Dupuis, how she’d taken him in and taught him. How the first time he’d managed to capture, even slightly, the vision in his mind onto canvas, he’d felt like he was flying. How he’d fallen in love with photography, learning to capture what he saw through the lens. They share the food Harry has brought, overstuffed sandwiches and fresh fruit. A delicious, straw-colored wine that slips down Draco’s dry throat like a balm. Pâté on fresh bread and miniature chocolate cakes that explode with flavour on Draco’s tongue.

“You have a little…”

Harry reaches over to run his thumb along the corner of Draco’s mouth, wiping away the chocolate he finds there. Draco’s lips part under the gentle touch and he hears Harry’s breath hitch, and when he looks up, he sees that Harry’s eyes have darkened. Harry moves in closer, slides his hand up to curve Draco’s jaw and leans in.

There’s a pause here, a simple breath and Draco realises something. This feels different — this isn’t just a hook-up or even those explosive kisses two nights ago. Something about being here with Harry under the open sky, in the broad light of day, feels different. It feels like the first steps into something new, something bigger perhaps, like Harry is offering him an invitation. He could pull back, Draco knows. The choice is his. His heart is hammering in his throat, and he can’t look away, can only nod once, the words unspoken, the intent clear.

Harry presses soft, gentle kisses, first to Draco’s lips, then across his cheek. Draco tilts his head back, eyes still closed, and wraps an arm around Harry to pull him down so they’re lying together on the sun-warmed quilt. Harry’s mouth moves slowly across Draco’s jaw and down to his neck. He’s not pushing anything, it’s as if he’s holding the throttle steady, and when he tucks his face into the crook of Draco’s neck and inhales, Draco wraps his arms around him and pulls him close, and feels Harry’s body relax against him.

“Well, Draco Malfoy,” he hears Harry rumble against his chest, “I’d never have pegged you for a cuddler.”

Draco opens one eye and gives Harry a disdainful look, and Harry snickers against him and wraps himself tighter around Draco.

“I’ll have you know, Potter, that I’m an excellent cuddler,” Draco pronounces.

“I can tell,” Harry murmurs, dropping his head to Draco’s chest, and Draco wonders if Harry can hear how his heart is still racing.

They’re quiet for several long minutes, and then Draco hears Harry take a breath.

“Can I… is it okay, can I ask you something?”

Draco shrugs. “You can ask.”

“Well, at the party after the show, in Wiltshire. You said not all your songs were autobiographical? But that song, _Pluto._ Fuck, Draco, it’s a brilliant song. But, you said there was truth to it?”

Draco thanks back to that conversation and sighs. Maybe, he thinks, it will be easier to unpack the ugliness in his history, in their shared history here, where it’s beautiful and calm. Maybe the sunlight can bleach away the stain Draco still feels he carries.

“I’m not sure where to start,” he finally murmurs. “You said I wasn’t afraid of heights, but I was. As a child, I was terrified. The first time I tried to fly, I fell off my broom.” He loosens his hold on Harry, and rolls onto his side to face him.

“But,” Harry says slowly, “you were an amazing flyer at school.”

“Malfoys aren’t afraid of heights, Harry. Malfoys aren’t supposed to be afraid of anything. My father, he was…” Draco feels Harry stiffen next to him. “He was, shall we say, not pleased at his child displaying this weakness. He forced Keeley, the house-elf who was teaching me to fly, to get me back on the broom and take me high, much higher than the rooftop of the Manor. I was sure I was going to die.”

“What?” Harry rolls away and sits up, outrage vibrating in his shoulders. “Draco, that’s terrible.”

He looks ready to leap to his feet, and Draco smiles a bit, thinking how little that’s changed, for all Harry’s claims of increased impulse control. Leap first, look later, that’s Potter to the core.

“Oddly enough, there’s a term for it in Muggle psychology, though if you’d suggested to my father that he’d have something to learn from Muggles, he’d have AK’d you himself.” Draco sighs. “It’s called exposure therapy, and it’s for exactly those kinds of fears, though.” Draco pauses, collects himself. “Generally there’s a process of working up to the exposure, and I was. I was quite young, Potter.”

Harry stares at him. “How old were you?”

Draco looks away. “I was five. When Keeley finally brought me down, I was almost unconscious from fear. When I got off the broom. Well, fell off, really.” He huffs a flat laugh. “My father hauled me to my feet and slapped me across the face. He never said a word, just walked away, but I knew what I had to do. So I forced myself to learn to fly, and I was good, you’re right. But I was never a natural flyer, not like you.”

Harry makes a soft noise and reaches out, runs a hand along Draco’s arm.

“Where was…” Harry begins and then pauses, as if uncertain he’s allowed to ask.

“Go ahead,” Draco says quietly.

“Where was your mother in all this?” Harry asks softly, his voice gentle and so kind.

Draco sighs. “She was. There. In the parlour. Drinking sherry. Upstairs. Around.” He shakes his head. “It’s complicated.”

Harry says nothing, and rests his hand on Draco’s arm.

“And then, when you pulled me out of the fire…” Draco pauses, not sure what to say. What _can_ he say? “You saved my life, and I swore that if I survived, I was never going to fly again, that I was going to stay on solid ground. And I didn’t, for years. I mean, for a lot of that, yeah, I was working and traveling, but once I got to Las Vegas, I was determined. There was no way, and it got worse after Tommy and Gina…” His voice breaks and he realises with a moment of horror how much Harry doesn’t know.

The gulf between them stretches wide and Draco has no idea how to bridge it. This feels important, but it’s frightening, Draco thinks, to bare himself like this to Potter’s gaze. Painful to think of his sacred dead, terrifying to share them with Potter, who may not understand. But, Draco thinks, his heart racing, he wants to try. He’ll take this step and hope the words will come. And if there’s anyone who can understand, he thinks it just might be Harry Potter.

From Harry’s silence, Draco realises that he’s paid attention to the weight Draco is carrying, and after a long moment, all he says is, his voice gentle, “Who are Tommy and Gina? I mean, I know the names. You’ve referenced them in your songs.”

Draco sits up. “It’s a long story, Potter. You sure you want to hear?”

Harry just nods, his eyes intent on Draco’s. Finally he shifts, pulls out a fresh bottle of wine. “Here,” he says, “Let’s pour a drink and walk a bit. The grounds are gorgeous.”

The late afternoon sun stretches their shadows out long in front of them, and it’s starting to cool off a bit as they wander out of the courtyard and down the pathway where Draco sees a river curving through the property. He sips his wine, letting the crisp flavors burst across his tongue. They wander in silence a bit, and then Harry indicates the bench near the riverbank, and they sit.

“I was arrogant,” Draco says finally. “When I decided to leave. I assumed I would have everything I needed. I assumed my parents would support me.”

They’re sitting side by side, watching the sunlight dance on the green water of the river, and Draco wonders for a moment what it would be like simply to sink under, let the noise of the world disappear. He observes the thought, lets it move through his mind, and then releases it to the river.

“And you didn’t have that?” Harry asks gently and Draco snorts.

“After you left that day, when I told my parents I was leaving, my father called me a failure and a disgrace, punched me in the face, and closed the wards against me,” he says bluntly and feels Harry stiffen next to him.

“What? Why would he do that?”

Draco shrugs. “I gave up trying to understand my father years ago, Harry. I had enough to get a Portkey to New York, and I didn’t learn until I’d got there that he’d closed the vaults as well. All of a sudden I was in a strange place, a different country, after having just lost a war, and I had nothing but the things I’d brought with me.”

Nothing but the same leather bag he travels with now, and shame that took years to ease.

Draco can feel the weight of Harry’s gaze on him, but can’t turn to meet his eyes.

“What did you do?” Harry asks finally.

Draco shrugs. “I slept on the streets. Panicked a lot. I ended up in lower Manhattan. I made some friends with some of the working girls, they felt sorry for me. They fed me, tried to protect me from some of the predators I encountered. I slept by the firehouse on Liberty, and that’s where I met Tommy and Gina.”

He takes a deep breath. It’s not that he’s never talked about them, he has, plenty. The community and Andi taught him to honour his dead and say their names, and it’s been years. It’s no longer a raw and gaping wound, but it still hurts.

“Gina found me sleeping on the pavement, and made me come inside. She was a firefighter, both she and Tommy were, her boyfriend. They were tough kids from Jersey, they taught me what that meant. Gina had the biggest heart of anyone I’ve ever known. Tommy always teased her…” Draco’s voice cracks and he takes a deep breath.

“Tommy always teased her about taking in strays. When I moved in with them, they had three cats, a lizard, and a parrot, all in a one-bedroom apartment in Manhattan. I lived with them for six months, slept on their sofa. They got me a job waiting tables at their friend’s restaurant, and Tommy hooked me up with his buddy when it was time for me to go. We talked every week, no matter where I was.”

Draco knows that Harry Potter is no fool. Knows he’s picked up on the pain in Draco’s voice and the past tense verbs, so it’s no shock when Harry asks quietly, “What happened to them, Draco?”

Draco looks out over the river. It’s so peaceful here. Serene and calm. It’s hard to believe that there’s ever been violence in the world when you’re sitting in a place like this. Hard to remember fire and twisted metal, falling towers and dead bodies. Flying machines in pieces on the ground. He shakes his head for a moment to dispel the images.

“I’d been in Vegas for a few months by then. I’d been writing them letters, calling them and telling them all about it. I mean, I couldn’t tell them everything, that it was a wizarding community, but that I thought I’d found my place, you know? I could see a path forward. I’d told them about Pansy and Blaise, how they’d come too. I always called them on Sundays, you know? Because they didn’t work on Sundays.”

He feels Harry next to him, steady and calm, his breathing even in the late afternoon sun, in contrast to Draco’s shaky inhale. Harry reaches over and places his hand on top of Draco’s, and Draco pauses, then turns his hand palm-up to thread his fingers into Harry’s.

“So, I called them on my usual Sunday, and they didn’t answer. I didn’t think too much of it, really, because it happened sometimes. But, they didn’t call me back. And that never happened. Gina, she was the most loyal person I’ve ever known, and once you were hers, you were _hers,_ you know?”

Draco turns to look at Harry, who is watching him with an open gaze that takes Draco’s breath away.

“Yeah,” Harry says finally, “I think I can relate to that.” His hand holds Draco’s, strong and sure. “What happened to them, Draco?” He asks again, and Draco knows that somehow Harry knows.

“I kept calling.” Draco remembers.

He’d had to leave the compound to get a signal on his phone, that was before Pansy figured out how to make the cellular connection work without getting overwhelmed by magic. He’d gone out to the desert and he’d called, over and over. Finally, after three days, he’d called Mike, Tommy and Gina’s friend from the station house, but Mike hadn’t answered. His father had.

“Mike’s father told me what had happened. There’d been attacks on the Muggles. Coordinated attacks. Two men had hijacked airplanes and flown them into the World Trade Center, right next to Tommy and Gina’s firehouse. Two other planes had crashed in other places. Tommy and Gina did their job, and they died. Saving lives.”

Harry’s fingers tighten around Draco’s hand, and Draco squeezes back.

“Fuck, Draco. I’m so sorry.”

Harry’s voice is rough and Draco leans against him for a moment, allows himself to take comfort in the warm press of Harry’s shoulder against his own.

“Believe me, Harry. I’d thought long and hard at that point about the wrong I’d done. The terrorism that had been perpetrated by my people. I just. It was hard, to lose them. They gave me a home. They were the first people who’d ever just… you know.” Draco smiles sadly, remembering Gina’s smile and Tommy’s cackle. “They just loved me for me. Taught me that people could do that, you know? That I didn’t have to be a Malfoy. I could just be… Draco. I didn’t even know who that was, until I was with them. And then they were gone. Just like that. They died heroes. And I’d lived, a coward.”

Harry makes an inarticulate noise, his grip tightens on Draco’s hands even further, and then he eases up, doesn’t say a word. Draco sips his wine to ease the ache in his throat, the memory of all he’d done. He’s not proud of how he dealt with their loss, but he’s learned to forgive himself.

“That was when I connected with Andi, my mentor at Grace and Atonement. She saved me, you know? She showed me a way through.” He stops, coughs, unable to continue, that loss too raw to expose.

“Anyway, that was when Blaise, Pansy and I met Norah, and it was like everything just fell into place. We started playing music, writing songs together, even playing out at some dive bars in Vegas.” He smiles to himself as he remembers those early shows, and then remembers the original point of this conversation.

“So, anyway, out in the desert, people did fly a lot. It’s gorgeous, especially at night. You can’t even imagine how bright the stars are, when you get far enough out, away from the city. But I couldn't, for a long time. Not that I was still afraid of flying, I’d got over that, but I guess I was afraid of…” His voice trails off as he watches the river. He can feel Harry’s gaze on him. “I was afraid of falling. No, of letting go.”

Harry inhales and his hand tightens on Draco’s for a moment, and then relaxes.

“I guess I can.” Harry pauses for a moment. “I can understand that feeling, definitely.”

Draco nods and exhales. “Yeah. Andi insisted that I get back on a broom. The first time I went up, I made it about 3 metres into the air, landed and vomited.”

He remembers the cool of the night air, the way Andi had rested her hand heavy between his shoulder blades as he’d shivered and shook on the desert floor. The way she’d talked him down, teaching him a method to calm himself that he still uses today. The way she’d insisted he get back up, and how she’d flown with him until he’d stopped being so scared and had felt he could go on alone. How much he misses her. How much he misses them all.

He tries to remember why he originally started talking about this. “So, I guess that’s a very long-winded way of saying, some lyrics are autobiographical, some aren’t. I try to make them all true though.”

He leans back against the bench and closes his eyes for a moment, listens to the sound of the river running past, wonders how long it’s been making its way through this land.

Harry finishes the last of his wine, and stands, turning to hold out his hand to Draco as he does. “Let’s go back to the blanket? I’ve got tea.”

It doesn’t feel like he’s ignoring what Draco has shared, Draco realises, but rather that he seems to know Draco needs a break. They walk back to the blanket in silence, Harry’s hand wrapped around Draco’s and by the time they get there, the lump in Draco’s throat has eased and he’s breathing more steadily.

They sit, and Harry rummages in the picnic basket, pulling out mugs and a kettle that he heats with a flick of his fingers, and Draco flushes, remembering that moment of wandless magic in Harry’s tent, the candles burning, the scent of wax and smoke, the flicker of flames in the dark.

“So, Potter,” he says, deliberately working to lighten the mood between them. “What about you?”

“What about me, what?” Harry asks, handing Draco a steaming mug and pulling out more of those little chocolate cakes.

Draco shrugs. “I don’t know, tell me about your life, what it’s like?”

Harry takes a sip of his tea. “Well, I’m based in London, but I do travel a fair amount. I try to spend at least half my time at home. I’ve got my godson, Teddy with me one night a week when I’m in town, and I spend time with Ron and Hermione, of course, and their kids. My studio is there too.”

As he speaks, Draco can picture it, Harry at the center of this vast web of love and connections, his roots sunk deep. The joy in his voice when he tells of the children in his life is palpable, and Draco wonders for a moment, that Harry hasn’t chosen to have children himself. Wonders what his own web looks like.

“So, Vegas.” Harry says and pauses, as if considering what to ask. “That’s home for you now?”

Draco shrugs. “I have a condo downtown, but I don't really think of it as home. I’ve definitely spent more time on the road and in my tent than I have there.”

“So, where is home, then?” Harry asks curiously and it feels like a shot to the heart. “The community?”

Draco shakes his head. “I mean, I go back regularly, for the fall and spring equinoxes every year, those are our big celebrations, but no. I’m not sure I have a home in the way you do, Potter. I can write music almost anywhere, so… I’ve spent so many years traveling, first by myself and then with the band.” His voice trails off. “Not a lot of time to put down roots, I guess.”

Harry looks at Draco over the edge of his teacup but doesn’t say anything. Draco sets his cup down, and flops back down onto the quilt. The sun is starting to set, and Draco takes a long breath in, the scent of roses heavy on his tongue. He stretches lazily and turns to look at Harry with a smile.

“This has been a gorgeous day, Harry. Thank you.”

He hears Harry hiss an intake of breath and then Harry drops his mug, dumping tea into the grass, and scrambles over the blanket to his shoulder bag, where he yanks out his camera.

“Draco,” he breathes, and there it is, the same tone, the same note of intensity in his voice as had been there the night they’d hooked up, when he’d almost begged to take Draco’s photograph.

“Draco, can I?”

Draco stares at him. “Of course, Potter, though I can’t think why you seem so obsessed with taking pictures of me.”

Harry rolls his eyes at this, not looking up from where he’s changing the settings on the camera. “Because you’re fucking gorgeous, mate,” he says, and lifts the camera to his eye, apparently forgoing the levitation charm this time. “And this light, it’s perfect. That’s perfect, fuck. Just.” The camera clicks. “Like.” The camera clicks again. “Yeah. _That.”_

Harry sets down the camera and meets Draco’s eyes, and suddenly, the mood, which all day has swung between intense and intimate, and light-hearted chatter, moves somewhere new. Draco feels lit up by the afternoon sun splashing golden across the courtyard, spotlighted under Harry’s urgent gaze, and his heart begins to race.

“So,” Harry says, moving across the blanket, “we’ve got a bit of time to kill before dinner.”

“Oh, really?” Draco murmurs as Harry approaches. “Whatever shall we think of to do?” and grabs Harry, yanking him down on the blanket and rolling him over onto his back.

Draco straddles Harry’s thighs and feels Harry shudder beneath him. He looks down at where Harry is sprawled out, grinning knowingly up at him.

“Shut up, Potter,” Draco whispers and leans down to claim Harry’s mouth.

They kiss, slow and steady, for long moments, Harry’s hands reaching up to splay across Draco’s back.

“Wasn’t saying anything,” Harry murmurs against Draco’s mouth, bringing one hand around to cup Draco’s jaw and draw him back into another searing kiss.

Draco relishes the feel of Harry’s strong body beneath him as he loses himself in the kiss, in the touch of Harry’s mouth under his, the way Harry catches his breath as they move together. They shift and roll, and Draco ends up on his back with Harry slotted between his thighs like the final piece of the puzzle. Harry is hard, and he knows Harry can feel the hard line of his own cock as he presses down, the delicious friction drawing a gasp from Draco.

The speed and heat between them builds, and Draco groans, long and low.

Harry pulls back with a hiss, stilling his movements as he looks down at Draco, his pupils blown as he shudders to hold back.

“Fuck, Draco, is this okay? What do you want?” His voice is hoarse. “Tell me what you want.”

“I, I…” Draco gasps. “Fuck, I don’t know. _Anything._ Fuck, you feel so good.”

Harry leans down and kisses along Draco’s jaw, before moving lower down his body, unbuttoning his shirt as he goes.

Draco arches under his tongue as Harry moves across his chest, and then down. He feels the heat of the sun on his skin warm the cool damp trail that Harry’s mouth leaves behind. He closes his eyes, surrenders to the moment, lifting his hips as Harry unhooks his trousers and shoves them down around his thighs, the quilt soft under his bare skin. He feels Harry nip at the jut of his hip bone as his fingertips ghost over the neatly trimmed curls of Draco’s groin.

Without opening his eyes, Draco whispers, “You’re a fucking tease, Pott—” and gasps as Harry’s mouth, hot and wet, takes Draco in.

Harry wraps his hand around the base of Draco’s cock, moving in tandem with his head as he sucks, laving his tongue over the sensitive tip, flicking quickly over the hard ridge of flesh.

Draco can’t help himself, arching up against the onslaught of sensation until, far too soon, he feels that white hot tug of electricity strike through him like lightning and he’s groaning out a warning to Harry, who seems to redouble his efforts, and then Draco is shouting as he comes down Harry’s throat.

“Fuck, _fuck,”_ he groans, collapsing back onto the quilt, his chest heaving.

Harry sits back on his haunches, his own breath coming in gasps. His hair is a wreck, his face red and Draco suddenly can’t wait anymore. He props himself up on his elbows and taps Harry’s thigh.

“Come on.”

“What?” Harry looks almost dazed and Draco feels a buzz of satisfaction beyond the glorious orgasm he’s just been given.

He grabs Harry by the hips, pushing him to kneeling, and tries to tug down his trousers. Harry seems to understand what he wants, eagerly getting with the program, and unbuttons his jeans, unzipping them quickly and standing up to kick them away so that his cock springs free, hard and damp as it slaps against his belly. Draco feels his mouth water as he eyes it. He hadn’t got to get his mouth on Potter during their tryst at the music festival and damn, he thought, he was missing out.

Draco lies back down as Harry shifts and kneels over him, running his hands over Harry’s strong thighs. Their eyes meet and hold, the air between them molten, and then Draco licks his lips and says again, “Come on. Give it to me,” and opens his mouth.

Harry closes his eyes for a moment and presses a hand to his cock, as if the sight of Draco beneath him is pushing him too close to the edge. Then he nods, and, leaning over to brace himself on one arm, he guides his cock into Draco’s waiting mouth.

Harry tastes like salt and musk and a faint hint of lemon and Draco can’t get enough. He rests one hand on Harry’s hip to guide him into a gentle rhythm, and uses the other to cover the base of Harry’s cock. Harry rocks his hips slowly, and Draco can see that his eyes are closed as he sinks into the sensations. His skin is soft under Draco’s tongue, and he begins to move more urgently, words tumbling from his lips, as Draco works him over.

“Fuck, _fuck_. Draco, your mouth. I’m gonna, fuck, Draco. I’m so close, I’m gonna, _I’m gonna…”_ His voice trails off with a gasp and a loud groan as his hips stutter and he floods Draco’s mouth with his release.

Draco coughs and swallows and Harry opens his eyes. “Fuck, are you okay?”

He slides down Draco and slumps over him, his body a pleasant and warm weight in the cooling evening air.

“Good,” Draco says, his voice hoarse. “I’m good, Harry.”

Harry lifts his head to grin at Draco and then leans over to press a kiss to his jaw before slumping back over to sprawl across his chest, and Draco lazily runs his fingers through Harry’s messy hair.

“That was fucking fantastic,” Harry sighs. “I can’t feel my feet.”

“That’s going to make walking complicated,” Draco murmurs drowsily and he feels more than hears Harry’s chuckle.

“I hate to say this,” Harry says after a few more moments of contented silence, “But we really should pack up. They’re waiting on us for dinner.”

Draco waits but Harry makes no indication he’s actually planning to move.

“Well, it might be easier if you, you know, got off of me,” he points out and Harry sighs, finally rolling away from him.

Draco feels the tingle of a cleaning charm and rolls his eyes. It took him more than a year of practice before he could cast the wandless charm he uses during the show, and here Harry is, just waving his hands about and getting people clean like a flash bastard. It’s annoying, is what it is. He pokes Harry as he sits up and realises he’s going to have to stand to get his trousers back up.

“Where are we eating, anyway?”

“Up at the hotel,” Harry says, distractedly gathering his clothes and yanking his jeans back on. He pulls his t-shirt over his head as Draco slowly buttons his shirt, and starts gathering their possessions, which seem to have scattered all around them over the course of the day. “They’ve got a tasting menu paired with their wines that’s lovely. I think you’ll enjoy it.”

Draco feels a flush of pleasure at picturing Harry planning this day, reserving the hotel, making dinner plans, clearly all with an eye towards pleasing him. It’s been a long time since someone has, well, _wooed_ him this way. Actually, no one has, ever. Draco is well aware that people assume he has his pick of partners, but the reality is quite different. He’s learned that people are often more drawn to the appearance than the substance of who he is, and he knows that the substance can be more complicated than most people are willing to take on. Not Harry though, he thinks. Harry’s seen him at his worst, heard him at his best, and seems interested in all of it.

It’s a bit overwhelming, a bit nerve-wracking, but he ignores the small knot of anxiety that’s seated deep in his gut and lets himself enjoy it for just a moment. He’s struggled over the years to allow himself to live in the present, the past so often has a way of reappearing. He still can’t quite understand what’s led him to this moment in time, this place, here with Harry, but resolves once more simply to appreciate it.

They make their way back up to the main building. The hostess, a different woman in another subdued dark suit, leads them up the wide, double staircase to a small, private dining room. They’re seated and soon have their first course, fresh fruit skewers with what is advertised as “our own garden mint and a drizzle of our own honey.” This is paired with a gorgeous prosecco, and Draco lets the bubbles dance across his tongue.

“This is lovely, Harry,” he says softly. “I have to admit, I’m a bit overwhelmed.”

Harry smiles at him over the curve of his glass. “I find that surprising, Draco. I mean, someone like you, I guess I’d assumed you’d have people falling over themselves to be with you.”

Draco can’t help the inelegant snort that escapes him. “Well, sadly, Potter, you’d be wrong about that.”

Harry quirks an expressive eyebrow at him. “Oh? Really?”

“Well,” Draco says after a moment. “In part, I’m on the road a lot, and there aren’t a lot of men who enjoy being left behind. And I’m not sure what you think my life is like, but it’s really much more time in generic American hotels, and very little time drinking world-class wines in world-renowned spas, more’s the pity.”

He sets the glass down and watches one waiter clear their plates, while another delivers the next course, this time a pesto crostini with a lovely dry white wine.

“And what about you?” Draco continues after sampling the crostini, which is, as expected, spectacular. “The Saviour of the Wizarding World? I imagine you’re not hard up for company?”

Harry holds up his glass to examine his wine, the candlelight sparkling through the golden liquid. “I mean. I’ve dated.” He shrugs. “It’s harder in London for me. You never know if someone wants you for yourself or your status, you know?”

Draco nods, because he does know. It’s certainly one of the less-welcome aspects of fame, and it had taken only one instance of a potential date asking to meet up in the lobby of the Bellagio for him to realise that.

“Have you…” His voices trails off and he wonders if this is okay.

“It’s fine,” Harry says quietly. “You can ask. It’s part of getting to know each other, isn’t it? And the waiters here have all signed magically binding NDAs. They offered, in fact.” He grins. “Like I said, I did work for the managers, and we’re friends. They want me to feel safe here. Nothing we say here is going to get out.”

“I guess I’m just wondering about your history a bit. I mean,” Draco adds hastily, “I don’t really need the gory details. It’s just, you mentioned a boyfriend?”

Harry snorts. “Well, while I was living over here after the war, I had exactly one relationship. Ginny and I decided not to get back together after the war. She and Neville dated for a while, but they split up a couple of years ago. I dated Carmel while I lived here, but it never really went anywhere. Probably,” Harry muses as he sips his wine, “because I’m actually really gay, but I just hadn’t figured it out then.”

“So, how did you?” Draco asks curiously.

Harry smiles, his eyes far away for a moment. “I was traveling in Italy, painting. I was living in a boarding house in Brindisi for a few months and I met… someone. A guy, obviously.”

Draco nods, fascinated at this glimpse into Harry’s history. “And you fell madly in love by the Adriatic Sea?”

Harry stares at him and laughs. “No, not really. More of madly in lust, though it took me some time to figure out that that was what was going on.”

He shrugs, smiles at the waiter who is delivering the next course, this time some sort of vegetable and salmon canape, paired with light rosé. He waits for the waiter to exit the room before continuing.

“So, how did you?” Draco asks. “Figure it out, I mean?”

Harry snickers and says, “One morning, I was coming back from a run on the beach and Antonio, that was his name, was there, swimming.” He takes a sip of the wine and then grins at Draco. “Skinny dipping, actually, and I. Well, let’s say, I figured it out fairly quickly in the face of his… assets.”

Draco snickers in appreciation. He feels a faint flicker of jealousy, but lets it pass through him, reminding himself that he doesn’t own Harry, and in any case, it’s ridiculous to be jealous of a past lover. _You can’t change the past,_ he reminds himself, _you can only change your relationship to it._

“Of course his name was Antonio,” is all he says, and raises his glass in a salute to Harry.

“How about you?” Harry asks.

Draco freezes and wonders if he should share that he had his gay awakening fifth year when he’d walked in on Blaise wanking in the shower. He decides discretion may be the better part of valor here.

“I, err. Let’s just say that I knew. I was aware at school, but what with…” His voice trails off and he makes an awkward gesture that he hopes encompasses the war, pure-blood culture, and his own terrible mistakes, and when Harry nods, he exhales.

“I’d never really thought much about it. Gina and Tommy, they figured it out pretty quickly. The Americans have this cliché of the hot fireman, Harry, and let me tell you. There’s some truth to it.”

Draco feels a pang as he thinks of those men, so many lost now, but drags himself back to the conversation at hand as Harry laughs.

“But I guess,” Draco continues, “like you, I had my gay awakening near the ocean. I was working the orange harvest near Sarasota, and I got…. close, shall we say? To one of the other workers. Miguel. He taught me some interesting lessons.”

Harry pauses. “It seems like you had a lot of… new experiences in your travels.”

Draco snorts at the understatement. “Yes. It’s hard to describe. I had always been so sure of who I was, you know? My place in the world.” He rolls his eyes at himself. “And then, when it was gone, shattered really, I had to start over.”

Harry simply nods and then asks, “What about relationships? Boyfriends? What’s that been like for you.”

Draco shrugs. “Like I said, I was on the move, then at the community, and then really I’ve been on tour for so much of the last several years. I had a couple of more casual relationships but nothing serious. Andi always told me that she thought maybe I was meant for one big love in life, and that I just hadn’t found it yet, but I don’t know.”

He doesn’t mention the struggles he’s had to open up his heart to anyone, and how, after Andi’s death, he’d decided that maybe it was just too damn painful to keep trying, and that since then, he hasn’t even really found the energy to hook up with anyone, let alone date. There’s time for those sorts of discussions, he thinks. Later.

“And you?” he asks, congratulating himself on being so mature.

Harry nods. “Yeah, after I, uh, came back to England, it took a while before I felt comfortable, you know? I mean, the papers and photographers were following me everywhere. Thank Circe it’s eased off since then. It wasn’t that big a deal when I was single, but when I was in a relationship, I knew I needed to come out.”

“So it was serious? That relationship?”

Harry shrugs. “I mean, I did come out for him. Michael. He was an American over in London working with the DMLE, and we met after I got back from France. He’s a great guy, really nice, sweet, funny.” He shrugs. “I cared about him a lot, but when it was time for him to head back to the US, I couldn’t go with him, and he didn’t want to do a long-distance relationship, even though at the time, I thought we could have made it work, you know?”

“How long ago was that?” Draco asks gently. He’s not sure if it's hurt or disappointment he’s hearing in Harry’s voice, and all of a sudden he wonders if Harry is as heart-whole as he’s been assuming, but Harry’s next words reassure him.

“It’s been a couple of years,” Harry says easily. “We were together for a year before I came out, and then another two years. We lived together that last year, but I always knew he was going back to the US. I was surprised that he wasn’t even willing to try a long-distance relationship, but I understood in the end, I guess.”

“That’s remarkably… well-adjusted of you, Potter,” Draco says, and frowns into his wine.

It’s not that he begrudges Harry any past happiness. It’s more. He sees his friends around him coming together in long-term relationships, and he’s not managed that yet, though it’s something he’s definitely wanted, and he wonders once more if it’s something he’s destined to find, and if he’ll even be capable of it, should it arrive in his life.

Harry shrugs. “Hermione said that if I were really all the way in, I’d have fought harder. Like, it was easy with Michael. Calm. And I wanted that then. But maybe it was too easy? I don’t know. In any case, I hadn’t really met anyone else…” His voice trails off and he looks nervous for a moment. “Until now, that is.”

Their eyes meet and then Draco smiles, slow and steady. He takes a long sip of the Pinot Noir paired with whatever course it is they’re on now, and hopes Harry can hear what he’s not saying yet.


	4. Chapter 3: when i break pattern, i break ground

Over the next two months, Draco finds himself spending time with Harry almost every day. He gets to know Harry better, starts to see him as the man he’s become, deeply embedded in the life he’s created for himself. He gets to know Harry’s friends, as well. Granger and Weasley become Hermione and Ron, and oddly enough, after a few stilted interactions, things relax. Hermione, it turns out, has a wickedly dry sense of humour, and is merciless in her observations of all that needs fixing up in the wizarding world. It’s not a surprise to Draco that she’s already high up in the Ministry. Ron has also foregone the Auror route, and is instead second-in-command at S&E, and apparently attends a lot of Quidditch matches as part of his work, and offers to get Draco tickets to any game he might want to see.

Draco and the band have decided to summer in London, and Blaise has happily demanded that Draco continue to stay with him, though a few nights a week, Draco ends up over at Harry’s place. Harry’s got a large, sunny flat on the outskirts of Wizarding London. He explains to Draco that he’d sold Grimmauld Place right after the war, that it held too many dark memories for him. His flat is an interesting blend of clean lines and cozy furniture, and feels lived-in in a way that Draco’s condo never has, and it startles Draco to realise how comfortable he feels there with Harry.

As their connection grows, Draco realises he feels safe enough now, to give Harry the letters, and one night, he hands them over. Harry spends the next day with them. He insists that Draco stay with him while he reads, so Draco settles onto the sofa next to him, Harry’s hand resting on his leg as he goes through them all, one by one.

There’s one particular letter that brings Harry to tears, and wordlessly he hands it to Draco who reads it over. He’d written this one in Athens, he remembers. They’d toured Italy and Greece with some Czech heavy metal band that Draco can’t even remember the name of, and Draco had stayed up late smoking weed and writing songs and letters. 

> _2 February 2003_
> 
> _Dear Potter,_
> 
> _I don’t hate you anymore. I thought you should know that, though I’m not sure you’d care. I wonder about you sometimes. Where you are. What you’re doing. Who you’re with. Are you happy, Potter?_
> 
> _I’m happy. Sometimes, anyway. Not all the time, but sometimes. Some days are better than others, you know how it is. I hope you do, anyway._
> 
> _Malcolm asked me about my scars the other day and I realised that I’d forgotten all about them, can you imagine? I guess they’re not so important anymore._
> 
> _Is that what it means to forgive, Potter? To realise that the pain someone else inflicted on you just doesn’t matter that much anymore? I didn’t deserve that from you. I know that now. But it may be that these are the only blameless scars I carry, and for that, I can almost thank you. All the rest, I know I earned those._
> 
> _So, in case you were wondering. I forgive you. I wonder if you could ever forgive me?_
> 
> _Sincerely,_
> 
> _Draco Malfoy_

That day marks a turning point for them, Draco realises later. Something shifts, and it scares him a bit, how easy things become, how comfortable he feels in Harry’s home even when Harry isn’t there. It’s as if every day, more and more of the past is left behind, as they fill this new present.

Draco knows that Harry is working on finalising pieces for his new show, and Draco spends time writing, both alone and with his band, and even more time just learning how to relax again. He hasn’t had this much unscheduled time in years, and he finds he’s enjoying it. He hasn’t seen any of Harry’s work yet, not for lack of trying, until Harry had finally asked him please to hold off until the show. Draco is no stranger to the whimsy of the artistic temperament, so he’d acquiesced easily.

As the show gets nearer, Harry gets a bit more ragged, and their time together lessens, though Harry does drag Draco out for a hysterical visit to the Tate Modern, where Harry introduces Draco to the wizarding wing and refuses to let him into the room where his own work is displayed.

“Is this where your new show is going to be?” Draco asks as they wander from the building along the river towards the Waterloo Apparition Point.

They’re walking side-by-side, arms brushing occasionally, but no contact beyond that. Harry had brought up the issue of publicity relatively early, saying only that he preferred to keep his private life private for as long as possible, and Draco had wholeheartedly agreed.

It’s two days until Harry’s show, and his energy has spiked up to a level of nervousness that Draco would not have believed if you’d told him before, but makes perfect sense as he’s got to know Harry better over the last several weeks.

“Nah,” Harry says casually.

“I’m showing at the Baldung Gallery on Diagon. Sorry, thought I’d told you that. The Tate requires too much security for an opening, though I think they’re planning to acquire a couple of the pieces from the show.” He makes a face. “Sorry, that sounds fucking pretentious. Anyway, yeah. S&E says we have to do the gala there. There’s already a lot of security in place, so it makes it easier.”

There a long moment of silence, and then,“You’ll be there, right?” Harry asks softly and Draco stares at him.

“Of course. Blaise and I even bought new suits for the occasion.” He smiles. “I wouldn’t miss it, Harry. I’ve been practicing my art critique.”

Harry bursts out laughing and the anxious look around his eyes eases a bit. “You have not, what are you talking about?”

Draco stops walking and pretends to be looking at a painting. He frowns and says, “I find this work menacing yet playful because of the way the aura of the purity of line endangers the devious simplicity of the essentially transitional quality.”

Harry is just staring at him now, as if he can’t comprehend what he’s seeing. People walking by are giving them funny looks.

Draco strokes his imaginary beard and then says, “With regard to the issue of content, the disjunctive perturbation of the sexual signifier endangers the crafty analysis of the substructure of critical thinking.”

Harry’s mouth is literally hanging open and Draco can’t keep a straight face as he watches Harry struggle to come up with a response, and then, without even looking to see who’s around, Harry yanks Draco into a kiss and then just holds him while laughs.

“I don’t even know what the fuck you just said, Draco,” he says, when he finally calms down.

Draco grins, and looks up at Harry, takes a chance and lays his hand on Harry’s cheek. “I know how stressful it is,” he says quietly.

Harry sighs. “I know, I just.” He runs a hand through his hair. “Like, I tell myself that I shouldn’t be anxious, that I’m happy with the work, it’s fucking nerve-wracking to unveil new stuff, no matter how many times I do it.” He suddenly laughs and says, “Somehow, Malfoy, I feel like you of all people might understand what it’s like.”

Draco nods. “It never really gets easier, at least — not for me.” He shrugs. “It’s taking pieces of yourself and offering them out to the world, and no matter how much you tell yourself that it doesn’t matter if the world loves it, or even accepts it, it does matter.”

Harry nods, and says only, “Exactly.”

*****

The evening of Harry’s show finds Draco almost as nervous as if it were his own work debuting. He’s in his fancy new suit. He’s gone for classic black, with a silver and green embroidered waistcoat. His hair has got longer, and he’s got it pulled back in a stubby ponytail. He’s polished his shoes and wand, and he’s ready to go. He and Blaise are planning to meet the others at the gala, and Draco’s looking forward to it.

The show feels important. It’s taken a lot of Harry’s time and focus over the last couple of months, and Draco doesn’t begrudge him one moment of that, but it feels like when they come through this, there will be more energy available for them. Draco feels like this time with Harry, this gorgeous, golden summer, has been something of a waking dream, and that they’ve been building a foundation, but he’s eager to see what they might become. Neither of them has spoken much of the future, though Draco’s had some interesting conversations with his band about where they may go from here. He and Harry haven’t said the words yet, but Draco feels sure they’re on the same page, and that the words are coming. Not tonight, of course. Tonight is about Harry. But soon. Soon.

But as he and Blaise are walking down Diagon to the gallery, it happens. Just as they’ve passed the Walrus and Lobster, Draco hears a gasp, and his name whispered. He freezes and then turns, and standing there, eyes wide and a hand pressed to her mouth, is his mother.

“Draco,” she says again, her voice cracked, but she doesn’t reach out, doesn’t even move in his direction. “I didn’t know you were back in England.”

Draco stares at her, overwhelmed. He opens his mouth but can’t find any words. He can’t believe that it’s never occurred to him that this could happen, that his mother might be in Diagon Alley. He’s been so wrapped up in Harry, he’s forgotten about his past, and he can’t understand now how he could have done that. How he could have been so foolish as to think that what came before could stay left behind.

Narcissa seems to have regained control, her voice is steadier as she says, “You should have let me know, darling. I would have been happy to have you stay at the Manor.” She sounds cool and poised, not at all like she’s seeing her only child for the first time in ten years.

Something inside Draco breaks at her tone, and it’s all he can do to speak, as he notices that passers-by are starting to stare. There’s a man he doesn’t recognise standing just behind his mother, in conservative robes, with his hand resting on Narcissa’s lower back as if he were guiding her out onto the pavement when she saw Draco.

He takes a deep breath and says, “Thank you, but no. I’ve been staying with Blaise before I go back to America.”

For a moment, Draco thinks he sees something in Narcissa’s eyes, but then she lowers them for a moment and when she looks at him again, she’s fully collected and drawn back within herself, and that glimpse of despair feels almost unreal. His heart is pounding and he wonders vaguely if he’s about to be sick all over her designer shoes.

“Well, you simply must come out for tea, darling. Maybe Wednesday?”

It hits Draco how surreal this is, and yet how very familiar this pain feels, and he pulls from deep within himself to say, “No. I won’t come to the Manor.”

Narcissa stares at him and her jaw tightens almost imperceptibly but Draco hasn’t forgotten how to read her, even after all these years. He feels that old sense of shame and fear and takes a deep breath. _You’re not seven,_ he reminds himself, _you got out. She has no power over you that you don’t want to give her. Don’t give it._

“I’m sorry, Mother, but I must be going. Blaise and I have an event to get to.”

And with that, Draco starts moving, leaving his mother behind. Blaise quickly moves as well, walking close, his arm pressing reassuringly into Draco’s as they move away.

As they walk away, Draco listens for some response from his mother, _anything_ at all, but all he hears is the pounding of his pulse in his ears.

“Draco,” Blaise says quietly and Draco stiffens.

“Don’t, Blaise. Not here. I can’t.”

He sees Blaise’s nod out of the corner of his eye, and feels Blaise’s strength and he wraps his arm around Draco’s shoulders for just a moment, just long enough to convey what words can’t capture, and then lets go.

“Come on,” Blaise says, his voice rough, “We don’t want to be late.”

As they walk through the warmth of the summer evening, Draco can feel himself disintegrating. He’s flooded with memories. Every time he’d let his mother down, her mouth would purse, and she’d look at him and then away, as if she couldn’t see him. As if he didn’t exist. And it hits him, not for the first time, that she’d never really seen him. She’d never hesitated, he recalls, to remind him in low tones and hissed words, all the ways he’d disappointed her, disappointed them both. He staggers, feels the weight of Blaise’s hand as he steadies him, keeps him from falling. He can’t breathe.

“Draco,” Blaise says again, “Let me take you home. I’ll tell Harry. You’re in no shape.”

“No,” Draco says faintly, and then more strongly, “No. This is important. That’s just. That’s the past. I’m okay.” But he’s not. He knows he’s not.

As they make their way into the gallery, Draco feels numb, as if he’s observing the crowd around him from underwater. He notes that the reception hall is lavishly decorated, with gold hangings and enormous bouquets of red roses, and Draco feels a moment of amusement, distant as it is, knowing that Harry probably hates all this. They accept booklets from the museum official who’s standing at the doorway to the main gallery, and make their way in.

Within moments, Blaise is pulled off into the crowd, leaving Draco to wander the room alone. Even in spite of the crowd, it’s calmer in here, less crowded, and he feels his anxiety ease a fraction, comes back to himself enough to look around the room. The room has a well-worn, antique wooden floor. The walls are painted a simple cream, clean and new for the show, and there are large pieces installed all around. Draco makes his way over to the one closest to him, and his mouth drops open in awe.

When Harry had said he worked in “mixed media,” Draco had had no idea what he meant by that. He knows Harry paints, he’s had that large and complicated camera pointed at him more than once, so he knows Harry takes photographs, but there’s no way he could have imagined that Harry could create… _this._

The canvases are large, possibly 2 metres square. In the centre, embedded in such a way that there is a seamless transition between print and canvas, are large-scale photos. Then, on the surrounding canvas frames, Harry has painted. From what Draco can see, the painted frames seem generally to be in a more realistic style.

Draco makes his way from piece to piece. He’s riveted, ignoring the crowd around him and the people trying to get his attention. Harry is, well, Draco thinks, Harry is quite possibly a genius, and what Draco starts to see in his art leaves him terrified, cold and shaking.

Harry has taken such ordinary subjects and painted them into exquisite beauty. He sees a photo of an enormous orange cat caught mid-leap over a stone bench, which dissolves into the kind of autumn foliage that Draco’s only seen in the northeast of the United States. There’s a photo of Molly Weasley, turning away from a kitchen sink, laughing as the afternoon sun lights up her face, highlighting every line that love and laughter, loss and grief have drawn on her face. That photo dissolves into a painting of a quintessential bucolic English countryside, with blue skies and cotton ball clouds, rolling hills dotted with sheep. And then, there’s the broken made beautiful. A tea cup, chipped and worn, surrounded by a cozy Victorian tea house, as if to say, _look, there’s life in you yet._ A rotting log, covered with mushrooms and a tiny green snake that slithers out of the frame, surrounded by a verdant forest, clearly teeming with life and beauty.

Draco turns away, overwhelmed, his mind spinning. He’s flooded with memories. His mother looking away as his father slapped him for some small infraction. Harry’s smile as Draco sank into the heat of his body, two weeks ago. He can’t breathe. He can’t think. He’s frozen for a moment, unsure where to go, or what to do. His heart is racing, and he shudders as he fights to inhale.

He looks up, and as if drawn by a magnet, his gaze snaps to Harry, across the room with a drink in hand. He looks good, better than good. He’s wearing a smart suit that fits him perfectly and even from this distance, Draco can see the whimsical floral print of his tie. He’s had a haircut since they parted ways the day before, and he looks stylishly tousled and so handsome that suddenly Draco can’t breathe. He catches the exact moment that Harry spots him, because his whole face lights up and he takes a step towards Draco, clearly intent on abandoning his conversation partner mid-word.

Draco runs.


	5. Chapter 5: i rebuild when i break down

Draco runs.

He drops his program somewhere on the floor, and just _runs,_ and he doesn’t stop until he hits Las Vegas, where he crawls into his empty bed in his empty and unlived-in apartment, and sleeps for twenty-two hours.

*****

By the time the dust settles, a week has gone by and Draco has ignored seventeen letters and eighty-seven Floo calls from Harry, and fifteen more Floo calls, not to mention three separate unannounced visits, from his various bandmates. He finally breaks down when he has to go out for more milk and finds Blaise and Pansy sitting in the hallway, surrounded by take-out containers and paper cups from the coffee shop around the corner. As soon as he opens the door, they surge over him, forcing him back into the flat and right into the living room and onto his horribly uncomfortable sofa.

“What the fuck?” Pansy shouts while Blaise just shakes his head. “What the actual _fucking fuck,_ Draco. You just _left._ What were you fucking _thinking?_ ”

The shouting continues for quite some time and Draco lets it wash over him, hearing the concern underneath the anger. Finally, Pansy winds down and wraps herself around Draco, resting her head on his shoulder.

Blaise comes out of the kitchen, shoving his phone into his pocket. “I texted Norah, she’s on her way with more food.” He shakes his head at Draco, dropping down on to the sofa next to him and drapes an arm around Draco and Pansy. “You’ve right fucked this up, mate.”

Draco lets himself lean into his friends, his heart aching. He knows. He _knows_ he did the wrong thing, he even has an inkling as to _why,_ but he doesn’t know what to do now, what would fix this. He doesn’t know what he wants. Or rather, he knows what he wants, he just doesn’t see any way he can have that.

“First things first,” Pansy announces, sitting up and wrinkling her nose. “You reek, Draco. Go take a shower. We’ll get this worked out when you’re clean.”

Since he can’t figure out what else to do, Draco follows her instructions. He showers and shaves, and frowns at his reflection in the mirror. He’s clearly lost weight and the shadows under his eyes have reached alarming proportions. He looks ravaged, is the word that comes to mind as he examines his face. Like someone barely still standing after his life has come apart. But, Draco sighs to himself, he’s only himself to blame for this, doesn’t he?

When he expresses this to the rest of his band, Blaise literally cuffs him upside the ear and Pansy just shakes her head.

They settle around his horrible glass and cast-iron coffee table, and Draco thinks vaguely, and not for the first time, that he’d like to pile everything he owns in this apartment onto a bonfire, set it alight and walk away. Start over somewhere else, anywhere at all, to try and build a real home. He drifts for a moment, picturing squashy armchairs pulled up in front of the fireplace he doesn’t have, and cozy maple furniture, and closes his eyes against the burst of pain when he realises that he’s imagining Harry’s London flat. It wouldn’t fit here, he thinks, nothing about that life could fit here; better simply to accept it and move on.

“So, what the fuck happened?” Blaise asks bluntly after they’ve all eat for a bit. “Was this because of Narcissa?”

The others don’t look surprised and Draco is relieved that Blaise has filled them in.

“I think so, yeah, in part,” he says hesitantly. “I just, I panicked. I was looking at Harry’s world, in his art, and it just. I don’t know what happened. All of a sudden I couldn’t breathe, and I just had to get out. I don’t even know how I got back here, honestly. It’s all a blur.”

He looks at the others and takes a deep breath. “I know we had talked about spending the fall in London, but this really is better, I think. I don’t think London is a good place for me, and it was never going to work with Harry anyway, so this is really for the best.”

They look unconvinced.

“But why, Draco?” Norah finally asks. “Why would you say that? I’ve never seen you like that with someone before. So happy. You were _happy,_ Draco. Why won’t you let yourself have that?”

Draco’s throat closes on the words he knows to be true. _I don’t deserve that._

He settles on, “I just think the distance between our worlds is too wide, you know? It was a nice fantasy, this summer, but I can’t. And I just. Can we get back to work? I’ll be fine. It’s all going to be fine.”

*****

Draco is really, really not fine. He’s not able to write a word or a note, and every time they get into the studio or gather at one of their respective apartments, Draco ends up shouting and leaving. Finally, it seems, they’ve all had enough of him being a miserable bastard.

“Enough, Draco. That is _enough,”_ Pansy spits out in exasperation after a particularly scathing comment from Draco. She throws down her pen and glares at him. “Look, I know you’re in pain. I know seeing your mother opened things up for you. I know you’re hurting over Harry,” and here a slightly furtive look crosses her face. “I know, okay? But you can’t keep doing this. I know you’re not sleeping, you’re not eating, and you’re being a right arsehole to the rest of us, and it’s going to end up hurting the band if we keep going like this.”

“Something has to change,” Norah says, “and we’ve made a plan.”

Draco stares at them. Pansy is right, he knows it, and he feels a moment of terror that maybe they’re throwing him out of the band, which is all he has left, he tells himself, knowing he’s being melodramatic. And maybe it would serve him right.

“Are you kicking me out?”

Norah rolls her eyes and Blaise snorts. “Of course not, you absolute cock. But you need a break and we need a break from you. Norah, tell him.”

“My uncle has a place. A cabin, in Vermont. It’s only accessible by broom, up in the mountains. You’re going there.”

“What?” Draco sputters in outrage. “You can’t just make me go to Vermont. Where the fuck even is that? I thought it was a city in New York?”

He’s totally lying, he knows perfectly well where Vermont is, he spent months there picking apples, several years ago now, but not so long that he’s forgotten. He knows the feel of autumn in New England and even as he’s protesting, part of him is whispering, _Yes go this is good do this._

“What the fuck am I supposed to do there, anyway?”

Norah shrugs as Blaise says, “Read. Go hiking. Look at the leaves. Write. We don’t really care, you just have got to get your shit together. In fact, we think a break would be good for all of us. Pansy and Norah have been invited to LA to help score that new miniseries. Theo’s going with them, and I’m going back to London for a bit.” His expression softens. “Ginny and I are… exploring our options.”

Draco stares at him, forgetting for a moment his own heartache and bad temper. “Wait, what the fuck? When did this happen?”

Blaise shrugs, a tiny grin playing about the corners of his mouth. “We ran into each other a few times over the summer. You were there for most of them, arsehole, but you were… distracted. Anyway, one thing kind of led to another. I was going to tell you, actually, the night of Harry’s show.”

Draco stares at him, trying to wrap his head around the idea of Blaise and Ginny Weasley and finds it’s not as difficult as he might have expected. He’d got to know all of Harry’s friends over the summer, and Ginny had turned out to be a delight, strong-willed with a wicked sense of humour. He’d been so caught up in Harry, Draco realises, he hadn’t noticed what was going on right under his nose. Something that is, in hindsight, glaringly apparent.

Torn between amusement and annoyance at himself for missing the obvious, not to mention feeling a little guilty, Draco says, “Oh, well. I wish you joy.”

Before Draco knows it, he’s packed up, his instruments are secured, and he’s got a six am Portkey to New York, and then on to Burlington. From there, it’s a three-hour flight almost due east, and Norah’s uncle has left the compass keyed to the cabin at the service desk for him. There’s a whole packet of instructions for him: how to work the gas stove, directions to the nearest town and grocery shopping, and Draco feels a flicker of anticipation. As he flies, the setting sun at his back, he captures a wisp of a melody, dancing just beyond reach at the back of his mind, and for the first time since he’d left London, he thinks maybe there’s a reason to believe he’ll be okay.

By the time he arrives, it’s dark, his arse is numb from the flight, and the melody has long escaped him, and he’s quite sure he’ll never be okay again. But, he also knows what he’s like when he’s tired and hungry, so he ignores all the things his brain is screaming at him, and touches down lightly on the lawn, hoping a bit desperately that he’s in the right place.

The cabin is a quaint wooden building that backs into the hillside. There’s a front veranda that spans the width of the building, with wide, low stairs that open out onto a lawn that tumbles down to the forest’s edge. It looks cozy and homelike, and as Draco stretches out the kinks and unhooks his trunk from the broom, he thinks eagerly of food and bed.

He makes his way inside. Much like his travel tent, there’s a wide open living space on the first floor. He can see a small kitchen, and spies a few bottles of wine on the counter. There’s a large fireplace and a comfortable looking sofa. He drops his bags for the moment and wanders around, running his fingers over the piano that he’s been assured as been tuned for him, and plays a few notes. It sounds good.

He makes his way upstairs to find a large, open-loft bedroom with skylights as well as windows that look out onto the mountain. There’s a good-sized bathroom, also with a skylight right over the luxuriously large tub, and Draco imagines soaking away the aches of the journey under the stars, and resolves immediately to do just that. He realises the anxiety and heartache of the last few weeks have… not disappeared, exactly, but feel muted. Set aside, somehow.

He doesn’t feel good, but he doesn’t feel awful, exactly. Just more empty and a bit numb, as though he’s waiting for something to come back and fill him up, although he’s not sure what. Harry’s attempts to Floo and owl him have stopped, and Draco is working on letting go of any foolish hope that they might still somehow work things out. Clearly, if Harry’s let him go so easily, he wasn’t on the same page Draco had been, and he’s glad now he never said the words. That inner voice that he’s spent years learning to hear reminds him that Harry has tried. Harry reached out. Harry’s not the one who ran. Reminds him that no matter how heartbroken he feels, this is his own fault.

He wanders back downstairs. The quiet of the mountains is eerie, and he’s not used to it after so many months of city living. The afternoon light has faded, the sun dropping down behind the mountain range behind the house, and he shivers, feeling the weight of the encroaching night outside resting on the little cottage. Defiantly, he turns on every light in the building, locks the door against the dark and goes to explore the kitchen.

Over the next few days, Draco settles in. He doesn’t approach the piano, or make any music at all, taking time to rest. He gets caught up in the latest thriller in Finnigan’s best-selling series. He watches the sunrise while he drinks his coffee on the front porch, and he works on emptying his mind, reconnecting to his heart.

Finally, after three days of this, he gets up, and after breakfast, he grabs a notebook and his favourite pen, and sits down at the piano. Five hours later, the floor around him is littered with crumpled up pieces of paper, his head is splitting and he hasn’t written a usable word.

At first, he’s not discouraged. Sometimes he gets blocked, sometimes the words don’t flow, but as the days go on, he starts to get more and more anxious. Draco wouldn’t consider himself the most superstitious of wizards but he starts to wonder if by leaving Harry (and breaking his own heart in the bargain), he’s wounded something within himself, possibly fatally. This goes on for another two and half weeks, and finally, he gives up, slumping over at the piano with his head in his hands.

It’s been another day of futility. Every word seems trite, every melody derivative. He ponders the likelihood that whatever talent he had is gone forever, and sighs, stepping away from the piano. He knows himself well enough to know that when he starts make these sorts of proclamations of doom and gloom, whether aloud or in his head, it’s time to step away and give himself a break.

He fixes himself a nice supper and uncorks a lovely red wine. He sits and eats, savouring the tang of the tannins and the way the buttery, slightly nutty and sweet taste of the caramelised onions complements the rich flavour of the burger he’s eating. He washes up, focusing on simply being in the present moment. He notices his thoughts, the feel of the water hot against his skin, the scent of the soap, the way the smooth boards of the floor press back against his bare feet. He puts everything away, wipes down the counter, leaving the kitchen neat and tidy. He looks around helplessly, and then gives up, and goes to bed.

It’s late when he walks into the living room. It’s late, and somewhere inside, he’s aware that he’s dreaming, because instead of coming down the wide, pine stairs from the loft, he’s walking barefoot down the carpeted hallway of his condo in Vegas into his sterile and modern living room, and Andi is sitting on the sofa, but it’s not the horrible, uncomfortable thing he’s had since he moved in, it’s Harry’s worn, velvet, overstuffed monstrosity from his cozy flat in London, and Draco starts to cry.

Draco runs to Andi, hurling himself into her sturdy arms, and she holds him, rocks him, comforting him like only a mother can, with a gentle _shhhhh, baby._ Her body is full and round, the way it was before the cancer that overtook her like an avalanche came and ate all that away. She holds him and lets him cry, and finally, he sits up.

“You’re here,” he whispers, throat thick, reaching up to touch her cheek. It’s warm and solid under his hand. “You’re really here.”

She gives him her smile, the one that sees all the way into his heart. She knows him, maybe better than anyone except perhaps his band. Knows all his secrets and loves him anyway.

“I’ve missed you.” Draco scrubs a hand over his eyes. He knows this is a dream, she’s been dead almost two years now, but still, it feels so real. “Fuck, Andi, I’ve missed you so much.”

“Aww, baby,” she says with a loving smile, “I know you have, but I’m fine, remember? I’m fine.”

“Can you stay a while?” Draco asks, already knowing the answer when she shakes her head.

“Not too long, baby. I’ve got things to do, places to be. But Draco, darlin’, we gotta talk.”

Draco settles in next to her, and she wraps her arm around his shoulders, warm and grounding, and so, so real. She leans her head on his shoulder.

“Baby, you gotta get your shit together.”

Draco snorts, he can’t help himself, that’s exactly what she’s always said to him.

“You’ve been doing so good, baby, but man, you’re derailed right now.”

Draco sighs. “I fucked up, Andi. I fucked up bad. I went and fell in love.”

Andi cuffs him upside the head, hard enough to sting a little.

“You just hush your mouth, boy, that’s not what I’m talking about. I taught you better than that.”

Draco draws his knees up, rests his head on them. “I can’t write anything. I feel so stuck. I know I hurt him but…”

“You got scared.”

Draco turns to look at her. “Yeah,” he says ruefully, “you could say that. I saw my mum and then when I saw his art.”

Andi smiles into the distance. “He _is_ a talented artist, that boy, isn’t he?”

Even in the dream, Draco wonders how she knows, but Andi always did have a way of knowing things.

“The thing is, Draco,” she pauses, and the familiarity of their poses and her words bring yet more tears to Draco’s eyes. “I know he scares you.”

“I’m not afraid of Potter,” Draco mutters mutinously, even though he know he is, knows he is so obviously terrified that it’s almost laughable.

Andi cuffs him again, more gently this time. “You are, Draco. And I know why. He’s so full of love, he _burns_ with it, and you’re terrified you’re gonna go down in the flames. But what did I always teach you?”

“You taught me…” Draco’s voice trails off. “That love is the glue that binds the universe together, and it’s worth risking your heart to love someone. That I am enough. That I can be loved and love, even if I don’t always know how. That love is worth it.” His voice cracks. “That no matter how much it hurts to lose someone, it’s worth it to love them.”

Andi nods, and presses a kiss to Draco’s cheek. “See? Was that so hard? And don’t you roll your eyes at me, young man,” and Draco laughs, the ache in his chest easing a bit, and turns to look at her.

“I miss you, Andi. I really do.”

Andi smiles and Draco can see galaxies in her eyes as she looks back at him, her gaze clear.

“Draco, baby. You’ve already got everything you need, you just gotta be brave now.” And Draco wakes up.

As if he’s still dreaming, he makes his way down the stairs to sit at the piano, and he begins to write.

Draco’s been at the cabin for over four weeks, and it’s now deep into Autumn. The Vermont hills are a mass of fire and earth tones as the leaves change and the season rolls on. It’s cold at night now, but judicious warming charms on the front steps allow Draco to sit outside after dinner, working on the songs that are flowing freely now, practicing, or simply playing through things he knows.

It’s not that late in the day, a Monday, Draco thinks, but the sun is sinking in the sky earlier and earlier each afternoon, and Draco knows he needs to decide where he’s going to go from here. Soon, he thinks, soon. But not yet. He had an owl from Pansy a few days ago, asking him exactly that, and he still doesn’t have an answer for her. He needs just a little more time.

So for now, this afternoon, he’s out on the porch. He’d had a late lunch, and now he’s got a beer, a local IPA he’s discovered, and his guitar. He’s savouring the last of the sun on his face as he spends time working on a new song. It’s not _his_ story, not exactly, he thinks, but there’s truth in the words he’s writing, and he wonders what Harry will think when he hears it. If he does.

He hits the opening chords for a moment, D D Dsus2 and then back to D, and moves to the bridge, letting the chords ring out as he plays with a strumming pattern he thinks can work, and then moves into the final chorus.

 _I've been trying to get down to the heart of the matter_  
 _But my will gets weak_  
 _And my thoughts seem to scatter_  
 _But I think it's about forgiveness, forgiveness_  
 _Even if you don't love me…_  
  
_I've been trying to get down to the heart of the matter_  
 _Because the flesh will get weak_  
 _And the ashes will scatter_  
 _So I'm thinking about forgiveness, forgiveness_  
 _Even if you don't love me anymore_

He frowns, jots down a note into the notebook at his side. The sun hasn’t begun to set properly yet, but the shadows from the trees at the edge of the meadow downslope from him are lengthening, and he thinks he catches sight of movement between the trees off to the right. He freezes for a moment, and then relaxes.

Draco lets his fingers dance on the neck of the guitar and then begins to sing out to the forest and the leaves and the dying day.

_I've seen love go by my door_   
_It's never been this close before_   
_Never been so easy or so slow_   
_I've been shooting in the dark too long_   
_When somethin's not right it's wrong_   
_You're gonna make me lonesome when you go_

He makes his way through the song, one of the first that Gina and Tommy had made him learn when they realised how good he actually was, and how much music he didn’t know (he’d blamed it on being homeschooled in rural England). He smiles as he remembers sitting in their tiny living room that had doubled as his bedroom, Tommy making him listen to the old recordings, _on vinyl, Draco, like God intended._

_I'll look for you in old Honolulu_   
_San Francisco, Ashtabula_   
_You're gonna have to leave me now, I know_   
_But I'll see you in the sky above_   
_In the tall grass, in the ones I love_   
_You're gonna make me lonesome when you go_

He repeats the last line and watches out of the corner of his eyes as the man makes his way across the lawn and drops his bag with a sigh before settling on to the steps next to him, helping himself to Draco’s beer as Draco sets the guitar aside.

“I like that,” Harry finally says. “Yours?”

Draco refuses to look directly at him, afraid that if he starts, he’ll never stop. He knows something is different, but he doesn’t want to see, so he just shakes his head and says, “That’s Bob Dylan. He’s an American singer-songwriter, amazing.”

“Muggle?” Harry asks thoughtfully, as if he hasn’t just dropped in after weeks of silence and Draco’s desertion.

“No, squib actually,” Draco says and then frowns at the forest. “He’s got to have a little Veela in him though, it’s the only thing that makes sense.”

Harry just nods, then takes another sip of Draco’s beer.

It’s Draco who finally breaks the silence.

“I’m surprised to see you here, Potter.”

He feels rather than sees Harry’s shrug. “Well, I was trying to give you some space, but I think I deserve an explanation, Draco. Don’t you?”

Draco sighs. “Of course you do. More than that, you deserve an apology.”

He feels Harry’s gaze on his face, knows that Harry’s eyes can see the shadows, the weight loss, the restless nights. He can’t allow himself to feel even a flicker of hope that Harry showing up here means anything other than a clean resolution. Of all the terrifying things he’s had to face since Voldemort went down, he’s always found hope to be the worst.

“I’m not sure where to start,” he says.

“Maybe,” Harry says quietly, “you could start with what happened at the show?”

Draco nods, steels himself. “It was on the way, actually. As Blaise and I were walking down Diagon, we ran into my mother coming out of the Walrus and Lobster. On a date, I think.”

Harry says nothing, waiting patiently, and Draco wonders where he learned that, that inner stillness. Harry Potter has learned to take his time.

Draco takes a deep breath. “I hadn’t seen her in ten years, Harry. We’d exchanged letters, after my father died. When I came into my Black inheritance when I was twenty-six, I realised that she hadn’t disinherited me, even though my father had, and we tried to connect, but it was just hard for me. We haven’t laid eyes on each other since I’d left for America, that was the first time. She asked me to come to the Manor for tea, and I said. Well, I said no, of course. And she gave me that look.”

Draco looks out at the colours of the fall, and remembers the ice in his mother’s gaze.

“My mother could always communicate more with a simple look than most mortals can with a dictionary. This was the ‘how could you be such a disappointment’ look. The ‘you’re letting the Malfoy line down’ look. It cut, Harry, it cut deep and it always did.”

Draco looks down at his hands, clasped in his lap, at Harry’s denim-clad knee pressing against his own even though there’s plenty of room on the steps for them both, and begins to let himself hope, just a little bit, just for a moment.

“And then, when I got to your show, and I got to see your art. It was extraordinary, Harry. Technically, not that I know much about the visual arts, but obviously you’re incredibly talented and incredibly skilled. But it was so much more than that. When I saw how you can see the beauty in the broken, when I saw how deep your family roots go, how vast your love is, and how you can just… share that with the world? I just, I panicked.”

“But why?” Harry asks, and _oh,_ there it is, the pain beneath the calm as his voice cracks. “You just _left,_ Draco. Without a word. I know we hadn’t talked much about the future, but I thought it was clear, we were building something. Was I wrong?”

“No,” Draco says on a heavy sigh. “No, you weren’t wrong. But all I could think was, there was no way I could give you the love you deserve, a love that would fit into your life and make it bigger and brighter and better. Your life already _has_ all that, and I just thought, ‘I don’t know how to do that.’ And I felt so broken. So I panicked, and I ran like the coward I am.”

“You’re not a coward, Draco.” That’s all Harry says and Draco shakes his head.

“I think you’re wrong about that, Harry.”

There’s a long pause and then Harry says, “And you’re wrong about how my life has ‘all that.’ Yes, I’ve got friends and family. Connections. But I didn’t have that person who was just. You know, mine. I mean, it’s not like it felt particularly empty or anything, and I’ve always trusted that love would come when it was time. But there were spaces inside me, Draco, spaces that I wanted to share, and imagine my surprise when it turned out to be you.”

He pauses, sips at the beer. Draco still hasn’t been able to face him, to look him in the eyes.

Harry continues. “When Michael and I broke up, sure, it hurt, and I was sad, but I was also really fine, pretty quickly. I moved on and felt okay because somehow, I guess, it had always felt a bit temporary. But you, Draco, you had me thinking about forever from the very start. It’s like you crawled into all those spaces and put down roots, and when you ripped them up, it hurt. You hurt me.”

“I know.” The woods beyond the meadow are blurry and Draco scrubs a hand over his cheek to wipe away an errant tear. “I know I did, and I’m so sorry, Harry. More sorry than you can know.”

Harry just nods and they’re quiet for a bit.

“It’s weird,” Harry says finally. “At school. I always thought your parents, you know. Doted on you. Spoiled you rotten. Your mum was always sending you those fancy chocolates.”

“Harry,” Draco says, laughing even though it’s not funny, “I don’t even like chocolate all that much. My mother sent that chocolate because she always knew how shopkeepers gossiped, and it looked good, you know? But no. They didn’t dote.”

“I know that now,” Harry offers, and Draco nods. “Just from that one story you told me about your dad. You almost never talk about them, about what it was like.”

“Well,” Draco laughs a bit sarcastically, “beyond anything else, it’s a bit awkward. Given everything that happened to you at the hands of my parents and their people. I didn’t think you’d want to hear.”

There’s a long moment of silence and then Harry says quietly, “Sounds like you had it bad. Even before the war.”

Draco finally, _finally_ turns to look at Harry, lets his eyes drink in the sorely missed sight. Harry’s hair is a bit longer, disheveled from the flight, and it hits him, what was bugging him about Harry’s face, he’s—

“Mercy,” Draco breaths, “You shaved.”

Harry rolls his eyes and grins for a moment and Draco examines the cut of his jaw, the quirk of his lips now no longer framed by the neatly trimmed beard.

“I tend to grow a beard in the summer, shave it in the fall.” Harry shrugs and Draco feels his brow furrow.

“That seems counterintuitive, Potter,” he says. “Shaving the beard when it gets cold.”

Harry snickers. “Well, you know me, I like to defy expectations.”

Draco just nods.

“Anyway,” Harry says. “I know there’s more to talk about, with your family and everything.”

Draco sighs. “Must we?”

“Yes,” Harry says, sounding determined. “Partners should know this stuff about each other, shouldn't they?”

“Partners?” Draco says quietly. “Is that what we are?”

He can’t look back at Harry in this moment, too scared to let him know that his heart is resting on Harry’s words.

“I thought so,” Harry says. “We can be. If you want. I know what I want. It’s just, you can’t do this to me again, Draco.”

“I can’t promise I won’t panic again, though,” Draco says, compelled to be honest.

He does his best not to make promises he can’t keep. This is a thing he’s learned.

“Of course not.” Harry sounds surprised. “You probably will. So will I. It’s part of the deal, isn’t it?”

“The deal?” Draco asks, a bit confused.

“The deal of being with someone with, you know. Trauma. Stuff. The war. Our childhoods. It’s bound to get messy. Just don’t… maybe next time, don’t run so far?”

Draco nods and feels as if a thousand kilogram weight has lifted from his shoulders. All of a sudden, it feels like he can breathe, for the first time in weeks.

“Okay,” he says. “Yes. Okay.”

There’s a moment of silence and then Harry yawns and stretches. “Melin, I’m fucking exhausted. I could use a shower too, if you have one?”

Draco scoffs, “Of course I have one, what sort of place do you think this is?”

Harry shrugs and stands, pulling Draco to his feet after him. He grabs his heavy shoulder bag and follows Draco into the cabin.

“Dunno. Pansy made it sound… rustic.”

“Well,” Draco concedes, “It is in the middle of fucking nowh— Wait a minute, you talked to Pansy? When.”

Harry stares at him as Draco turns around from where he’s halfway up the wide wooden staircase to the sleeping loft.

“Uh, yeah. As soon as I realised you’d gone. I’ve been in contact with Blaise and Pansy for weeks. When you wouldn’t take my letters or my Floo calls. I mostly just needed to make sure you hadn’t… done anything stupid.” He shakes his head. “I was scared, Draco. I saw the look on your face and then you just.” He swallows and his voice breaks as he continues, “You just left. When we got to Blaise’s and all your things were just gone. Like you didn’t exist anymore.”

Draco feels a bit as if Harry has stabbed him right in the heart and he closes his eyes against the ache of his own culpability.

“Hey.” He feels Harry move up the stairs and lay a tentative hand on his arm. “Hey, Draco. It’s okay.”

Draco shakes his head and finally opens his eyes. “It’s not. It’s really not. I just, I’m so sorry, Harry,” and he pulls Harry into a rough embrace, right there on the landing, halfway up the stairs.

“We don’t have to talk about it right now,” Harry mumbles into Draco’s shoulder, winding his arms around him and holding on tight, “I know you’re sorry.” He pulls back to press his forehead against Draco’s and whispers against his mouth, “I know why you ran, and I understand,” and kisses him.

A voice in the back of Draco’s mind whispers that perhaps this isn’t a good idea, that there’s still too much left unsaid, too many things to sort out, but Draco ignores it. He’d thought was wasn’t going to get to have this again, Harry in his arms, kissing him, pressed up against him, and he’s going to savour every moment of this for as long as he gets to keep it, and he won’t, he thinks frantically, ever willingly give this up again.

The kiss starts soft and gentle. They’ve kissed each other hundreds of times by now, maybe more, but they’re out of practice and it’s awkward for a moment. Draco’s not used to kissing Harry without his beard and for a moment, he mourns the loss of the soft scrape on his face, but Harry’s mouth tastes the same, he moves the same, he groans and his breath hitches the same and then they find their rhythm.

Harry presses Draco up against the wall, dropping his bag, which topples down the stairs with a crash.

“Fuck, hope there wasn’t anything fragile in there,” Draco spares a thought for Harry’s very expensive camera gear even as his head thumps back against the wall and Harry’s clever mouth moves down his neck to his collar bones. “Oh, fucking _hell,_ Harry.”

“Nothing important,” Harry mutters, nipping his away across Draco’s throat as he pins Draco’s hands up over his head. “Doesn’t matter.”

They finally stumble into the bedroom, collapse together onto the cheerful patchwork quilt, and it feels so good, so right, that Draco’s eyes fill again, and he closes them, letting the tears roll down his cheeks even as Harry kisses them away. There are no words as they move together, no words as Harry gently pulls off Draco’s clothes, and then strips himself bare before pressing back against Draco. No words as Harry makes his way down Draco’s body, opens him up and slides home with a groan. No words, only sighs and gasps, a moan of encouragement as they find their rhythm and move together, seeking the same heat and release.

Draco feels it building inside of him, revels in the way Harry plays his body like an instrument, knowing exactly where he wants to be touched, knowing when to be gentle, and when to go hard. He is overwhelmed by the feel of skin on skin, scent of their bodies, the sounds they make, the last glow of the afternoon light. Draco reaches, reaches, reaches and cries out as Harry moves and pulls, pushes in and takes him over the edge, and there are stars exploding in the dark as Draco falls.

When Draco surfaces from the best sleep he’s had in months, he looks over at Harry, who is lying with his back to Draco, curled up on his side. The sheet has slipped down, and Draco is flooded with tenderness at the sight of his shoulder blades, the bumps of his spine, the curve of his hip. He draws his thumb down over Harry’s back, who turns over with a sleepy smile, and Draco is lost.

“I missed you,” he whispers, and Harry reaches over to pull him in for a kiss.

“I’m right here,” he whispers back and suddenly it’s as if Draco can’t be close enough.

He rolls Harry onto his back, never lifting his mouth from Harry’s, and presses him into the sheets. Desperate to feel Harry, he opens himself up haphazardly, sinks down, relishing the burn and stretch as Harry fills him. After he comes, he slides down Harry’s body, swallows him down, as Harry cries out, shouting Draco’s name as he empties himself into Draco’s mouth.

There’s a long moment, the silence of the room broken by their panting breaths, and then Harry gasps, “Good morning to you too, Draco Malfoy,” and Draco knows they’re on their way.

Draco convinces Harry to cast a quick cleaning charm so they can go back to sleep without sticking to the sheets. Later, after a very thorough shower, they stumble their way down to the kitchen to drink coffee between kisses and talk.

“Hermione has a theory,” Harry says, biting into the crisp, red apple he finds in the fruit bowl on the counter. “She read a whole lot about Muggle psychology and trauma and stuff after the war, and she thinks that even though things with the Dursleys were so awful, that I got what she’d call a good foundation with my parents, and that allowed me to figure out how to build these relationships. I mean, I’ve learned more about love from Ron and Hermione than almost anyone. All the Weasleys, really.”

Draco searches his mind for the terminology and says, “Attachment theory. I read about that.”

Harry stares at him, bemused. “You? Studied Muggle psychology?”

Draco shrugs self-consciously. “There’s a lot of downtime in touring, Potter. I took some courses on the internet.”

Harry shakes his head. “Of course you did. I think you’re worse than Hermione.”

Draco rolls his eyes. “Oh, shut up.” Harry smirks, and Draco says, “So, Granger thinks what, that you had a secure attachment, so even though your Muggles were horrendous people and at the very least emotionally abusive, you’ve got a solid base and that’s allowed you to form healthy relationships as an adult?”

“You sound like a textbook,” Harry comments and then shrugs. “Yeah, basically something like that. I know we didn’t talk a lot yesterday, but there’s some things you’ve said that I just. I don’t agree with you.”

Draco’s heart starts to pound but he knows, they can’t put this off any longer.

“I just. I don’t understand why you feel this way, that you can’t love me how I deserve.” Harry’s flushes as he says it, but plows on regardless, and Draco’s heart aches with loving him. “I mean, I know it’s fast, it hasn’t been that long. But ever since that first night on your back porch, I’ve felt a connection to you. I wanted to see where it went, see what we could be, and everything I’ve learned since then…”

His voice trails off and he looks at Draco, really looks at him, and Draco’s heart races because having the full force of Harry’s attention is intense and a bit intoxicating, and Draco has missed him _so fucking much._

“Like I said, I don’t understand why you feel like you can’t love me right, but Draco. You’re wrong. You’ve never been more wrong about anything, and you’ve been wrong about a lot. At first I thought it was over, that you’d made up your mind, but now.”

Clean-shaven, he looks so young, and now so hopeful in the gleam of the morning light, and the love that’s shining in his eyes is unmistakable, now that Draco knows what to look for.

“Harry. I just. I don’t know what I’m doing. I don’t know how to do this. I’m liable to fuck it up completely, you know? You say I’m wrong, but what if I’m not? You were loved with the love that let you save the world, and I.” Draco pauses, breathes. “I was loved with the love that let you die.”

Draco watches Harry, waits for that look to dim, to die out, but it doesn’t, and Harry only watches him carefully, waits for him to go on.

“There are things we have to work out, can’t you see? Things you might need from me, that I can’t give. And I’m scared, not because it’s you, but because I’m me. This summer, it was like…” Draco searches for the words. “It was like a dream, you know? Time out of time. But my real life, it’s not that easy. _I’m_ not that easy, Potter.”

Even as he speaks though, he can hear it in his voice. This isn’t a battle, not anymore, but whatever it is, Draco thinks, maybe he and Harry have already won. Harry’s face changes, and Draco knows that Harry knows what Draco wants. Which is only, Draco thinks ruefully, everything.

“Believe me, Malfoy,” Harry rolls his eyes affectionately, “I’m well-aware how much work you are. But Draco, can’t we work it out? Together. Because,” and here Harry takes a deep breath and his voice is a bit shaky as he says, “because, I love you, you idiot. I love you and I know there’s some work to do it, but it’s just. You know. It’s just _work._ I know we can figure it out. I just need to know if you’re still in this.”

Draco feels like his heart is about to pound right out of his chest. He reaches up to drag his knuckles down the line of Harry’s bare jaw and then leans in, whispering, “I’m in it, Potter. I’m all the way in.” And the words sound an awful lot like _I love you, too._

Over the next few days, they settle into something of a routine. They stay up late talking and spend sleepy mornings sitting on the porch drinking coffee. They tend to go their separate ways after lunch. Harry will grab his camera and head out, either on foot or by broom, while Draco curls up on the sofa or sits at the piano to write. It feels easier than it should, Draco thinks.

But then, one morning, Draco wakes up and knows it’s going to be a Bad Day. He can feel it in his bones. It’s hot in the cabin. A sort of reprise of summer has settled into the air, and it’s been sticky and humid for the last few days. Draco opens his eyes. The bedroom feels oppressive, but he can’t think of anywhere else he could go that would be better. So he doesn’t move.

He claims a headache when Harry gets up, and doesn’t open his eyes when Harry presses a kiss to his forehead and says, “I’m going out for the day, see you later, baby.”

Draco lies in bed for hours. He doesn’t want to be there, but he doesn’t want to move either. He doesn’t want to be anywhere, really. This happens sometimes, where something shifts in him and the sad simply takes over and then moves into numb, and he can’t make his brain work. His band knows what to do. Someone comes over and sleeps on the sofa. They don’t talk, but they don’t leave him alone, and usually within a day or so, he can pull himself out of it. It used to last longer, weeks at at time, but it’s got easier in recent years.

Draco’s not sure what set this one off. Maybe the fact that he’d dreamed about the Manor last night, and his mother, and fire. The heat of the flames licking at his feet. The feel of a strong body pressed next to his own on a shaking broomstick. The loathing and shame he still falls into now and then pulses over him in waves, and if he had more energy, he thinks wanly, he might actually be a danger to himself because he wants to rip the skin off of his bones. He can’t find the words to tell Harry what he needs, and only says “No” when Harry asks that evening if he’s feeling better.

The next day is a repeat the previous one. Harry leaves in the morning, exploring the area with his camera. Draco stays in bed, dying under the weight of the sticky air and a past that will never, ever let him go. When Harry gets back that afternoon, Draco is so deep into his own sadness that he can’t even speak when Harry asks if he’s okay. Can’t respond, and just lies there, waiting for Harry to leave again.

Harry doesn’t leave, though. He just sets a bowl of soup next to Draco on the nightstand, and clears it away, untouched, hours later. That night, Draco listens to Harry breathing next to him in the dark and wants to disappear. Finally, finally he drifts off, and he dreams.

Andi is sitting on the sofa again, only this time it’s the plaid monstrosity in the room below where he’s sleeping now, and somehow Draco knows in that dream-like mystery of knowing, that this is the last time, that he won’t see her again like this. He falls into her without words and she just holds him tight, and he feels her hands on his hair. Finally, he pulls back and they look at each other.

“Draco,” she says quietly, “you need to fight this. You know that, don’t you?”

Draco nods, and even in the dream, his voice is hoarse. “I know. I just don’t know. I feel poisonous, Andi, like I’m going to destroy him.”

Andi just shakes her head. “I know, darling,” is all she says, “And I don’t think anything I can say is going to make you feel different. Remember what I’ve always told you.”

Draco closes his eyes, lets himself bask in the feel of her arms around him, the familiar smell of her lotion, sandalwood tempered with the sweetness of vanilla.

“You always told me,” he struggles to remember, to form the words. He’s so tired. “That feelings aren’t facts?”

“That’s right, baby,” her voice rumbles comfortingly in his year. “And what are they?”

“They’re information.”

“And what are they telling you now?”

Draco pauses and in the dream, it seems so clear. Harry loves him, loves him so well, and Draco doesn’t believe he deserves that. But he’s learned, he knows that this isn’t true, even if it feels true right now because, “Everyone deserves to be loved,” he whispers. “That’s what my heart says.”

He feels Andi nod against him. “Then what do you have to do?”

Draco sighs, feels the weight of gravity pulling him to the ground. “I have to let him in, tell him what’s going on.”

“Let him love you, baby. That’s all. Just let it happen.”

Draco slumps over, in the dream feeling the soft fabric of the sofa under his bare legs. “I know. If I don’t, I’ll lose him, and Andi, I’m not sure I can bear that.”

“Well,” Andi says thoughtfully, “I think you could, Draco, but you don’t have to. That’s the thing. He’s right there, waiting for you. All you have to do is say yes.”

“You’re going, aren’t you?” Draco says, feeling his throat tighten. He pulls away to turn and look at her.

Andi looks back at him in the moonlight and only nods for a moment. “Yeah, baby,” she says. “It’s time for me to go. You deserve that love, Draco, no matter what you've done. You are more than just your mistakes. Listen to that voice inside, let it teach you.”

Draco smiles through his tears and reaches out to hold her one last time. “I will,” he promises into her shoulder as she hugs him so tightly, he feels his ribs creak. “It’s yours, after all.”

Draco wakes with the scent of sandalwood on his tongue, the feel of Andi’s arms around him, and music in his head. He casts a quick Tempus, and sighs when he sees it’s 3:14 in the morning. Harry is curled up next to him, his arm draped loosely around Draco’s hips, his breathing deep and even. They’d left the blinds open, and the room is dim in the glow of the full moon, cool in the autumn night. Draco rolls onto his back and gently moves Harry’s arm. He’ll not sleep again tonight, he knows.

He gets out of bed for the first time in days, and makes his way as quietly as he can to the bathroom, where he showers. He dries off, and pauses in the bedroom to pull on clean clothes, tossing the things he’d been wearing into the laundry hamper. Harry is a still lump in the dark, breathing evenly and Draco lets himself yearn for just a moment, and then leaves the room. Tomorrow will come soon enough, and they can talk then.

He closes the bedroom door behind himself and makes his way down the dark stairs to the living room. He pulls the factorem musica from cupboard and sets it on the coffee table, and then grabs the cello that he’d brought with him, but has barely played. He’s been working on a piece for weeks now, and the melody is flowing through him. He activates the charm, sits down, takes a quick moment to tune, and then begins to play. He can hear the other cello, the violin, in his mind, as the lyrical line moves down through his fingertips and out through the instrument.

When he’s recorded it to his satisfaction, he sets the cello aside, and grabbing the factorem, he moves to the piano. He murmurs the charm that pulls the various pieces together, and listens as the instruments play, weaving together exactly as he’d envisioned, and as he brings in the piano line, he’s smiling as he sings.

 _you taught me the courage of stars before you left._  
_how light carries on endlessly, even after death._  
_with shortness of breath, you explained the infinite._ _  
_ how rare and beautiful it is to even exist.

As his own words move gently into his ears, suddenly his throat thickens and he can’t continue. He lifts his hands from the keyboard and gives a wave of his hand to silence the music, so that he’s left sitting quietly in the dark, taking long slow breaths to bring himself back into equilibrium. He doesn’t realise Harry’s come into the dark room until he hears his voice.

“Who were they?”

Draco turns on the piano bench and sees Harry, leaning against the door frame, his cotton sleep pants riding low on his hips, his hair messy, face open and unguarded.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you. I just…”

Harry nods and yawns. “That song. It’s beautiful. I was just wondering who it was about?”

Draco turns away, plays a couple of random chords.

“I think I’ve talk about Andi? My mentor?”

Harry nods, wanders into the kitchen to pour a glass of juice, and then comes out to stand in the doorway and watch Draco at the piano. He doesn’t comment on the fact that Draco hasn’t spoken a word in days, hasn’t even moved. He just waits.

“So, when I got to Vegas, when I got to Grace and Atonement, I’d been there about three months when Tommy and Gina died. And I was. Fuck, Harry. I was so lost. I was so _angry._ The first people who’d ever just… loved me, and they were gone, with almost three thousand others. And there I was, in some fucking commune in Las Vegas.” He shakes his head, remembering the rage that had filled him. “I felt… useless. I was going to leave, didn’t feel like I could be there any more. The serenity that I saw others had? All I could think was that it was bullshit. A _lie.”_

Draco shakes his head, lets his hands dance over the keys.

“So what happened?” Harry moves closer, sits on the arm of the sofa and Draco can feel the weight of his gaze in the dim room.

“I was up late one night. I’d been into Vegas, been partying. Aditya didn’t have strict rules about that, but he didn’t like it, didn’t want people stumbling around drunk. So I was sitting in the garden, trying to sober up, looking at the stars and wishing. I don’t know, that I was one of them. It was late. And Andi came out and sat with me.”

Draco turns on the piano bench to face Harry. “I’d seen her around, of course. It’s a small community. You couldn’t help but know everyone, especially the residents, but we hadn’t really talked. Until that night.”

Harry just nods, silent and listening.

“All she said to me was, ‘I heard about your friends.’ And I just. I broke. Right there. You have to understand, when I left England, I didn’t cry at all, even with the blood my father left on my face running down my cheek. I didn’t cry that first week in New York, when I was so scared, and so, so alone. And then Tommy and Gina, they found me. They saved me.” His voice cracks and he takes a deep breath.

“I think,” Harry says softly, “that they helped you, Draco. But they didn’t save you. Not then. You did.”

Draco looks at him, the plane of his chest, the stubble on his jawline and thinks, _beloved._ Thinks, _mine._

“You did, though, Harry. You saved me, and you told me to make something of myself. And when I left New York and started traveling and working, it was your voice I heard in my head. But I never would have survived that long without Tommy and Gina. They were my foundation, you know? And so, losing them. Like that. It was hard.”

“I know,” Harry says softly, and Draco shakes his head.

“No, Harry. You don’t. Because your losses, none of them were because of you. And, okay. Sure. Pure-bloods and Death Eaters didn’t cause those terrorist attacks. Tommy and Gina didn’t die because of me and my kind. But others did, so many. Too many. Because of the cowardice and rot in my world. So when Andi sat next to me, and was kind. I just. I couldn’t bear it, the shame I felt. The absolute shame of who I was, and how much destruction I’d left behind me. If I’d had my wand with me, I think I would have AK’d myself.”

Harry shudders, wraps his arms around his bare torso, but doesn’t move towards Draco.

“So there I was, drunk and pitiful and absolutely reeking of shame and Andi, she just.” Draco shakes his head at the memory. “She held me. She let me cry and then she said something, and it hit me because it was almost exactly what you’d said to me. She said, ‘You can be better than this, Draco. It’s time. You need to make something more of yourself, and I’m going to help you.’”

Harry is quiet for a moment, and then moves to straddle the piano bench and wrap his arms around Draco.

“What happened to her?”

Draco doesn’t question how Harry knows. He sighs, his heart heavy.

“She got sick. Two years ago. It’s rare, but it can happen. It’s a sort of cancer of the magic. There’s no potion, no spell. No cure. She was gone in only a few months.”

Harry sighs, presses a gentle kiss to Draco’s head.

“Fuck, Draco, I’m so sorry.”

“Yeah,” Draco sighs. “I miss her, a lot. She was so… just so real, Harry. I wish you could have known her. I think sometimes that just about everything I am now is because of her, and what she taught me.”

Harry says carefully, “It sounds like she loved you a lot.”

Draco nods. “She did. And she taught me how to… I don’t know, be honest, I guess. Be a person. Figure out who I wanted to be and then just try to be the best version of that that I could be.”

Harry’s arms tighten again, and then he speaks.

“You said, when I first got here, you said you were a coward, but Draco, can’t you see it? You are _brave._ It took such courage to leave, to try and reconstruct yourself, and you didn’t just become the opposite of what you’d known. You’ve built yourself into this amazing person, creative and strong, and so, so brave.”

Darco shakes his head. “Harry, I was terrified. I did what I had to do to survive, but I was scared. I still am, all the time.”

Harry pulls back to give Draco a smile that is replete with compassion and understanding. “Draco, brave is just another word for being afraid. Being afraid and doing it anyway. Don’t you know that by now?”

Draco closes his eyes for a moment against the wave of emotion that threatens to pull him under.

“Of course,” he whispers, and when Harry leans in to kiss him, he kisses him back with everything he has.

The next morning, after they’ve loved each other, whispering promises like the words of a sacrament between them, and slept, holding each other close, Draco wakes before Harry, feeling like the fog has lifted. He takes another long shower, relishes the feel of the hot water on his body, then the slide of warm and cosy clothes. He makes coffee, and wanders out into the crisp air on the back porch and sits for a bit, and then makes his way to the piano, a new song floating through his mind.

He plays around with the melody for a bit, and then reaches for his notebook as the words fill his mind.

 _And darkness will be rewritten_  
_Into a work of fiction, you’ll see_  
_As you pull on every ribbon_  
_You’ll find every secret it keeps_  
_The sound of the branches breaking under your feet_  
_The smell of the falling and burning leaves_ _  
_ The bitterness of winter or the sweetness of spring

As he writes the words, he hears Harry moving around upstairs, and then he pops his head into the room and gives Draco a grin.

“I’m starving,” he says and Draco grins back.

“Want to go into town for lunch?”

Harry nods. “I’ll hop in the shower and get dressed.” He moves over and presses a firm kiss to Draco’s lips. “I love you. Let’s get food. I think I want to paint later.”

As Draco watches him move out of the room, listens him thundering up the stairs and hears the shower kick on.

 _You are an artist,_ he thinks, _And your heart is your masterpiece._

_And I’ll keep it safe._


	6. Epilogue: like a final puzzle piece

**ONE YEAR LATER**

Draco slides out of the car and is immediately blinded by the flashing of lights. The Knight Bus has expanded into event transportation — apparently in this post-war world, there’s actually a need for it — and they now run a fleet of magically enhanced stretch limos, where you can request anything from a pool table to a king-sized bed. Harry had wanted to reserve that one as soon as he’d seen the listing, but given that they’ve still not officially confirmed their relationship to the general public or the press, they’re arriving in separate cars.

As Draco stands and straightens his suit jacket — he’s deliberately gone Muggle fashion for tonight — he hears the yells of the paparazzi who are out in force for Harry’s latest gallery show.

“Draco Malfoy, how’s the tour going?” “Draco, can you look over here, give us a smile for the _Prophet_?” “Malfoy, when’s the new album dropping?” and then, “Hey Draco, what do you think of Harry’s art?”

At that, Draco actually allows himself to crack a small smile as he looks at the photographer, Aloysius Something, from the _Quibbler_.

“I haven’t seen it yet,” he says with a laugh, and though he’s sure no one believes him, it’s true.

Harry is ridiculously private with his work, and between that fact and the world tour Dracones has been on for the last several months, Draco hasn’t seen the work Harry’s been so focused on, even though they’ve managed to spend time together in spite of their careers. When they’d been talking about the tour planning, they’d decided that they would never spend more than two weeks apart, so there’s been a lot of international Flooing, meeting in convenient cities in-between where they both were. Harry had spent a couple of months on tour with them over the summer, and hadn’t that been a bitch to keep out of the press. _Worth it though,_ Draco thinks. _Completely worth it._

But, the tour is wrapped up, and Draco’s been in London for just over a month now. He and Harry have been flat-hunting, and Draco has finally admitted to the others that he’s moved back to London. It hasn’t been easy. Draco knows he’s been unreasonable, finding fault with every single place they’ve looked at. He knows he’s scared, but he’s ready. Tonight should make that clear.

No one had been surprised that Blaise had moved back the previous winter, while Pansy, Norah, and Theo seem to be dividing their time between Las Vegas and London. The band is on hiatus, and they’re all working on side-projects at the moment, but plan to get back into the studio in January, and Draco can hardly wait. He loves what he’s been doing, but he misses his band.

Draco poses for one last moment and then makes his way up the red carpet into the venerable old building where the opening is being held. He remembers that moment, so many months ago, when he’d fled this same building with his heart in tatters, and aches for that man. Wishes he could go back and reassure him. Wonders what is yet to come, and knows that he and Harry will weather it together, whatever it might be.

As he walks into the venue, he hears the screams outside reach a fever pitch and smiles to himself. Harry must have arrived. He’s glad to know that it’s going to take him some time to traverse the gauntlet of press and fans waiting for him; this gives Draco some time to take in the show without Harry’s presence.

He smiles at the various Ministry officials and other celebrities that he encounters, and snags a glass of champagne from a passing waiter, a spotty kid who can’t be more than a few months out of Hogwarts who turns bright red when he sees who he’s just served.

Then he makes his way into the main gallery where the new work is being shown. Harry’s been ranting about the display process for ages, and to be honest, Draco has mostly tuned him out, but he knows that Harry’s been adamant about this series all being grouped together, and as he turns slowly to take in the whole room, he understands why.

The pieces are Harry’s signature mixed-media creations. There are thirteen in all, and like his other work, they’re large, the same style of canvas with large format photos embedded. Draco takes a deep and shuddering breath, because in at least half of the pieces, it’s his own face looking back at him.

“You fucking bastard,” he mutters under his breath, and blinks rapidly as an involuntary smile crosses his face. “You glorious fucking _bastard.”_

And then he sees something that takes his breath away.

He moves closer and stares. It’s the photo from their first night together. Draco is sitting up in the bed. The photo is dark, but still somehow clear, and Draco marvels at Harry’s technical genius. In the centre of the piece, Draco is clearly lit up with moonlight. He’s sitting up in the bed, sheets pooling around his waist, and the look on his face as his hair falls into his eyes is astonishingly open and vulnerable. In the photo, Draco shifts, the sheets slip lower to reveal he’s clearly naked under them, and then photograph-Draco smiles.

For the surround, Harry has painted deep night. There’s a full moon off the side, and Draco is quite sure Harry has meticulously researched the position of the stars in the night sky, as they shine out from the canvas. Rather than a landscape on the bottom half, though, Harry’s painted the moon and sky reflected in dark water, so it looks as though the bed on which Draco is sitting is floating in an ocean of stars.

Draco moves closer and when he sees the piece’s title, he has to close his eyes for a moment, because even though their close friends and family are all well aware of their relationship, after tonight, there won’t be a single person in attendance (and that, Draco knows, includes art editors from all the various papers and magazines) who will have any doubt whatsoever about what Draco is to Harry. Because the painting is titled, _The Moment I Knew._

Draco makes his way around to the other pieces. There’s the photo Harry had taken of the dolphin while they’d been on vacation in Jamaica. Draco grimaces, remembering how sunburnt he got — they’d spent hours out in that small boat just to get that shot. That photograph blends into beautiful turquoise waves, and Draco notes that in several of these pieces, Harry is moving away from his representational style into more colorful abstract whorls of color that evoke such feeling. And oh, there’s the picture from the garden in France, Draco stretched out on the faded quilt, lit up by the sun so he’s almost glowing, and the surround is of fat, gorgeous roses in all colors from white to deepest red, in full bloom.

Coming back to London has been as hard as it’s been wonderful. Two months ago, Draco had met his mother for tea at the Walrus, and had left white and shaking, unable to move for hours afterwards, and hasn’t seen her since. Harry had held him, and they’d fought over the words he’d offered, the promises he’d wanted to make. He sees the painting Harry has made from the photo he’d taken that night, Draco curled up on the floor, asleep, tears still apparent on his cheeks.

Harry has painted him in a room that doesn’t exist, with photos filling the walls, and Draco’s eyes fill at the sight of all those faces. Ron and Hermione. Ginny and Blaise. Tommy and Gina, and oh. He sees himself, standing with his arms around a smaller woman with generous curves and silver hair bright against her dark skin. It’s Andi. He shakes his head in disbelief, and knows exactly what Harry is showing him. The title of this piece is simply, _Family Portraits._

He sees his own face again, and laughs. That had been a lucky shot, from last Spring. Draco had been standing next to the large windows in Harry’s flat as a storm had raged outside. They’d been fighting that day, Draco recalls, about moving in together. Harry pushing and Draco pulling away, until Harry had shouted, “Don’t move. Don’t you fucking move, Draco,” and had gone running for his camera.

In the photo, Draco looks furious, his arms are crossed and his eyes are flashing as lighting strikes somewhere in London behind him. This photo blends into a storm, clouds swirling dark and grey, but just on the edge of the canvas can be seen the glow of blue skies on the horizon. Draco can’t help smirking a bit as he remembers what had happened after.

Harry setting down the camera and stalking towards him, pushing him to the floor even as Draco had shouted, “You ask too much, Potter. You ask too fucking much.”

They’d fucked, angry and brilliant, and then Draco had wept as Harry had held him. Harry had whispered over and over again, “I know, I know you’re scared, I am too, but we can do this, Draco, we can.”

He doesn’t realise how much time has passed, and that he still hasn’t seen Harry, when there’s a diffident cough at his elbow, and the events manager for the gallery is standing there saying, “It’s time, Mr Malfoy.”

As he follows the fellow, whose name he’s completely forgotten, he sees Harry in the crowd, who looks up, and for one long moment, their eyes hold, and then Harry breaks out into a helpless smile, and Draco knows the same is mirrored on his face, even as he’s being tugged away.

He looks over the performance area as he goes by. There’s no stage as such, but there is an area separated from the gallery floor by velvet ropes. There are two stools and microphone stands set up, and the piano over to the left a bit, and nods. As part of the gala, he and Blaise are premiering two of their songs from their newest EP for their side project, Sleeping At Last, and he can’t wait for Harry to hear them.

He meets up with Blaise in the Green Room, and they warm up, Blaise working his hands and Draco his voice, as there are no background vocals on these songs. Blaise just smiles at Draco and then pulls him into a hug. Like Draco, he’s wearing Muggle, but while Draco has gone high fashion, Blaise’s is a simple black suit, under which he has a white silk shirt, unbuttoned down almost to his waist.

“Nervous?” Blaise asks, running through the opening chords of the first song they’ll be doing.

Draco shrugs. “Not really. Hope I can make through North without crying though.”

“Just don’t look at your boy,” Blaise advises. “By the way, if you two were hoping to keep things quiet, between those pictures and that song, you know it’s all out there.”

Draco grins. “We talked about it. It’s all right.”

“You know there’s going to be a media storm, yeah?” Blaise asks, the concern clear in his voice.

Draco shrugs. “I mean, it can’t be that much of a surprise, can it?”

Blaise stares at him. “If nothing else, Draco, you’ve both been out of the country off and on for months. Sure, there’s been a bit of speculation, but most publications refer to your ‘friendship.’ I really don’t think you’ve been as obvious as you think, old friend.” His tone is teasing, affectionate, but his eyes are concerned.

“Well,” Draco says finally, “I don’t think there are going to be many questions after tonight.”

At that, Blaise’s concern seems to fade as he snorts. “Given what’s on those walls out there, mate, I think you might be right. Not to mention…” His voice trails off and Draco flushes. “Has he heard any of it?”

“A bit of the intro,” Draco says. “No lyrics.”

“And you’re going to spring it on this poor boy in public?”

“He didn’t share what he was doing,” Draco protests, and Blaise sighs.

“I despair of you both, terrible communicators the lot of you.”

Draco thinks about what’s hanging on the walls, the words he’s about to sing, and gives a small, secret smile. “I think we do alright, mate.”

But before Blaise can answer, they hear the voice of Reginald McDowd, Minister for the Arts, outside on the stage, and Draco knows that’s their cue to move into position.

“Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the Hans Baldung Gallery for the opening night of Harry Potter’s new show, _How I See It._ We know the Baldung is thrilled to host the world premiere of this show, which will be housed here for the next six months, and will then embark on a world tour. It will be back in the Baldung in May of 2012 for a month before the paintings will move to their permanent collections around the world.”

There is a round of enthusiastic applause, and Draco takes a deep breath, knowing what is coming next.

McDowd continues, “We’re also thrilled to offer you another world premiere tonight. We have with us tonight the duo Sleeping At Last. Sleeping At Last is the side project of Mr Draco Malfoy and Mr Blaise Zabini, founding members of Dracones Imaginari, who have kindly offered to perform two songs of their EP _Land,_ which will be available next week. Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome Sleeping at Last to the stage.”

As the applause sounds, Draco and Blaise take a deep breath as one, and then walk out into the stage area. They take their seats on the stools, and adjust their mics. A stagehand comes out and hands Blaise his ukelele, and he adjusts the tuning quickly. As the applause dies down, Draco smiles at the crowd and catches Harry’s eye briefly. He’s standing at the front of the crowd, off to the side near the piano, holding a drink, Ron and Hermione are flanking him, and as Draco looks at them, Ron gives a friendly nod, and Hermione offers an encouraging smile.

“Thank you, Minister McDowd, it’s a pleasure to be here for the opening of Harry’s newest show and to share a preview of our new work. Blaise and I realised that some of the writing we’ve been doing has moved in a different direction from our Dracones sound, so we’ve been exploring it with this project. We have two songs for you tonight, and we’ll begin with _South.”_

Draco takes a deep breath, lets the applause ring over him and then nods to Blaise, who begins to play as Draco sings.

 _some truths, over time, can learn to play nice._  
 _some truths are sharper than knives._  
 _some truths we only see in the corners of our eyes._  
 _some truths we wish we could hide._  
  
As he sings, he knows that everyone here is listening intently, and he hopes they hear what he’s saying.

_some truths can save us,_   
_some take our lives._   
_some truths are fire_   
_and some truths are ice._

He feels vulnerable up here in front of this crowd, people who’ve known him, or of him, his entire life. This is different from the stage of the music festivals, where he knows the crowd is filled with fans. This is Harry’s territory. He’s not sure what preconceived notions this crowd will have of him, but so far, at least, they seem to be willing to let him say his piece.

 _if truth is north_  
 _then i am true south._  
 _i can’t figure it out-_  
 _God knows i’ve tried_  
 _always looking up_  
 _’til my eyes give up._  
 _that’s how i lost touch_  
 _of who i am and who i was._  
  
As he keeps singing, he sees understanding, and even more, acceptance on the faces of those listening. Over the summer, he and Blaise had gone to an island off the coast of Maine, remote and cold, even in summer. They’d spent a month there writing music, and about halfway through their stay, Blaise had turned to him and said, “We’re not writing for Dracones, are we?” and thus had this project been born. The music is softer, quieter, a more stripped-down sound than they’ve created with the band. Draco has always been known for honest and introspective lyrics, so these aren’t anything new, but this soft, acoustic sound is.

He and Blaise exchange an affectionate smile as the song winds on, coming to its gentle end.

 _no matter what category you fit into,_ _  
_ _truth’s got its sight set on you._

As the song ends, the room fills with applause, and even a cheer or two. He sees Harry clapping wildly, having lost his drink somewhere in the crowd. Even Ron and Hermione are grinning as they applaud, and Ron leans over to whisper something in Harry’s ear, who nods enthusiastically, never taking his eyes off of Draco.

The stagehand comes out, and takes the ukelele from Blaise, and hands him the gleaming violin along with the bow. While Blaise checks the tuning, Draco stands and makes his way to the piano, his heart racing a bit. He’s an accomplished musician, but when he plays keyboards with the band, it’s only as part of the whole. This is him, alone at the piano, at least to start, giving his heart to Harry.

He adjusts the piano-top microphone and leans in to say, “Thank you so much. I told someone once that not every song is autobiographical. But sometimes they are. I hope that this person can hear this song tonight and understand what I’m saying. This is a song I wrote in the summer for someone who—” He stops, feels his throat catch and takes a deep breath, shoves the feelings away. “For someone who means a lot ot me. Who means everything. This is _North.”_

The piano intro is quiet and gentle, setting the tone for the song to follow, and then Draco begins to sing.

_we will call this place our home,_   
_the dirt in which our roots may grow._   
_though the storms will push and pull,_   
_we will call this place our home._

He doesn’t look up, doesn’t try to catch Harry’s eye, who is now standing not two metres away from him. He can feel Harry’s focus on him, the weight of it flushing his cheeks, as Blaise comes in with the violin descant.

 _we’ll tell our stories on these walls._  
_every year, measure how tall._  
_and just like a work of art,_ _  
_ we’ll tell our stories on these walls.

There’s a soft sigh from the crowd, and Draco is held tightly in their gaze, and for a moment he feels a flush of warmth in his chest as he realises that in a way, he, himself, is witnessing this moment from the art that Harry has made of him. He lets his voice soar on the chorus.

_let the years we’re here be kind, be kind._   
_let our hearts, like doors, open wide, open wide._   
_settle our bones like wood over time, over time._   
_give us bread, give us salt, give us wine._

As the song continues, sharing his hopes and dreams for them and their future, the work he knows they’ll have to keep doing every day, he fights to stay in control, to remember that this is a performance, but somehow, the crowd fades away until he feels like he’s alone in the room with only Harry there. Only Harry listening, only Harry watching him. Only Harry hearing his words.

The song builds and crescendos, with Draco’s voice and Blaise’s violin dancing together, the piano underneath, solid and grounding, until, at least, it sinks back down, and Draco sings the final verse.

_smaller than dust on this map_   
_lies the greatest thing we have:_   
_the dirt in which our roots may grow_   
_and the right to call it home._

As the piano fades, his voice drifting off into the air, there is a long pause, a breath almost, of deep silence as the crowd is still, and Draco has never felt more humbled by a response. He bites his lip, looking down at the piano keys, and then sees movement out of the corner of his eye.

It’s Harry, of course, vaulting over the velvet rope separating them. He moves in, fast and determined, and Draco rises to meet him, turning his back to the piano as Harry crashes into him, the force of his embrace knocking Draco back a step. In the distance, Draco hears the crowd go wild, but it fades as Harry’s mouth lands on his, hot and demanding. Harry’s arms are around him, strong and sure, and right now, in this moment, all Draco can feel is him. Harry surrounds him, the familiar press of his body along Draco’s, the soft scent of the cologne Draco gave him for Yule last year, the taste of his mouth as they kiss.

After a moment, they pull back, and Harry presses his forehead to Draco’s. “You bastard,” he says, unwittingly echoing Draco’s thoughts from earlier when he’d first seen the exhibit. “You fucking beautiful _bastard.”_

His eyes are shining with tears and Draco knows he’s not in much better shape himself. He can’t help himself and reaches up to cup Harry’s cheek, even as the flashbulbs start going off, and presses a gentle kiss to Harry’s lips.

He feels Harry take a deep breath and then he smiles. “So, what you’re saying is, you don’t want to buy that flat in Camden Town near Pansy and Norah that needs all the work?”

Draco can’t help but snort at that. “Is that what you took from the song?”

Harry looks at him, his gaze so open, so full of love and longing that Draco almost has to look away, he feels stripped so raw by it.

“Draco,” he says quietly, and it’s all right there, isn’t it, in his voice. “Draco, I heard exactly what you were saying. I heard everything.”

Draco glances over his shoulder to the art on the walls, where Harry has poured his love and very soul into creation, and knows he’s seeing exactly what Harry is saying as well.

“I can’t believe you didn’t tell me how many of those photos you were using in the show.”

Harry grins. “You wrote me a song,” he points out, ignoring the flash of cameras going off around them to lean in and kiss Draco again.

“You made me into art,” Draco says.

Harry pulls back and gives Draco an affectionate shake. “You were already art, Draco, I’ve told you that.”

Draco sighs, rests his head against Harry’s shoulder for a moment before straightening up. “They’re beautiful, Harry, every single one. I love the direction you’re going with the more abstract style.”

Harry looks around at the gallery and smiles. “I’m thinking they’ll call this my Draco period.”

Draco also looks around, sees his own face looking back at him. Everything’s out there now, in plain sight. Nothing is hidden anymore.

He meets Harry’s gaze and lifts his chin. “So, Potter,” he says, lifting one eyebrow, “The Draco period. How long do you think that will last.”

It’s part of what they’ve fought about, how hard it is, even after more than a year, for Draco to believe Harry’s promises. How painful it is for Harry when Draco refuses to join him in dreaming about their future. But seeing the beauty that Harry’s created, sharing his own heart with Harry, something in Draco settles.

Like any relationship, Draco thinks, theirs has been a dance, moving forward and backwards, figuring out how to be close without stepping on each other, how to be apart without losing sight of each other. They’re complicated people, both of them. Draco’s had hard days, as has Harry, though he tends to get angry instead of sad the way Draco does. Tends to retreat to his tent to paint.

Draco suspects that this is how it will be for them. Steps forwards, steps backwards, but he’s realised that it doesn’t matter which direction they’re going in, as long as they’re together, side by side, and he wants Harry to understand that he sees it now.

He takes a deep breath and then drops his eyes, shaking his head a bit. “I know I’ve been scared. I know I’ve held back. But I want this, all of it. With you.” He looks up to see Harry’s smile widen as he continues. “I want all of it. Roots. A place to come home to. A person to come home to. No,” Draco corrects himself. “ _You_. I want you. I’m still scared, but let’s do it anyway.”

Harry nods, as if he’s just been waiting for Draco to catch up, which he probably has, and then says casually, “For the rest of my life.”

“What?” Draco asks, confused by the non sequitur.

“The Draco period,” Harry says, and reaches up to drag his knuckles across Draco’s jaw. “I’d like it to last for the rest of my life.”

 _Of course_ , Draco thinks, and can’t help asking one last time, “Are you sure?”

Harry quirks one eyebrow and grins. “I’m sure, Malfoy. Are you?”

Draco takes a deep breath, feeling as if he’s about to dive off of a cliff. There’s no net, he realises, no guarantee that Harry can make. All they can do is make the promise, and do their best, every single to day, to honour it and help it grow. He looks up at Harry and he knows Harry sees it on his face.

“Yes. I’m sure. Let’s go find our home.”

**Author's Note:**

> First, I need to give credit to two people for inspiring this line:
> 
> “You were loved with the love that let you save the world, and I.” Draco pauses, breathes. “I was loved with the love that let you die.”  
> Thanks and credit for inspiration to [noeon](http://noeeon.tumblr.com/) and [femmequixotic](http://femmequixotic.tumblr.com/), and their amazing fic [Things Worth Knowing](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12922518). Not only are they brilliant writers (separately and together), they’re also two of the very best people I know, and part of my found family and I love them both very much a lot. They also talked through so much of this fic with me, and I’m eternally grateful for their love and support.
> 
> Second. I am not a songwriter (at least not a very good one), and all the songs referenced in this fic are real songs by real artists. The Spotify playlist can be found [here](https://open.spotify.com/user/hbg1cckxjm33xxhp9ycs351f9/playlist/68hXSdhHqryZ8C2ROEPgcu?si=wViXmVjAQ96Ni5JT_Pz4OQ) and I highly suggest going and listening!
> 
> Songs Included in this fic are:  
>  _Thunder_ , Imagine Dragons  
>  _Demons_ , Imagine Dragons  
>  _Radioactive_ , Imagine Dragons  
>  _It’s My Life_ , Bon Jovi  
>  _Pluto_ , Sleeping at Last (Atlas)  
>  _I Know a Place_ , Muna  
>  _Any Other Way_ , We the Kings  
>  _Two Ghosts_ , Harry Styles  
>  _The Heart of the Matter_ , Don Henley  
>  _You’re Gonna Make Me Lonesome When You Go_ , Bob Dylan (but Shawn Colvin’s cover)  
>  _Saturn_ , Sleeping at Last  
>  _I’ll Keep You Safe_ , Sleeping at Last  
>  _South_ , Sleeping at Last  
>  _North_ , Sleeping at Last
> 
> Songs referenced directly, or via phrasing or idea are:  
>  _My Way_ , Frank Sinatra  
>  _Hammer and a Nail_ , Indigo Girls  
>  _Winterbreak_ , Muna  
>  _Fire and Rain_ , James Taylor  
>  _Perfect_ , Ed Sheeran  
>  _Just Hold On_ , Louis Tomlinson with Steve Aoki  
>  _Bad Blood_ , Sleeping at Last
> 
> Feel free to [come say hi on Tumblr!](http://phd-mama.tumblr.com/) If you enjoyed this, the rest of my stuff can be [found here!](http://archiveofourown.org/users/phdmama/works)
> 
> Thank you so much for reading, and I would love it if you left a kudos or a comment, they all make my day brighter and inspire me to write more! A rebloggable Tumblr post can be found [here](https://phd-mama.tumblr.com/post/174984110043/well-call-this-fixer-upper-home)!


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